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CONTENTS 


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FAGIi 


The  Mother's  Jewel.  By  the  Author  of  "  The 

Brothers  " 5 

Sweet  Stream 10 

Stanzas.     By  Miss  E.  M.  Allison 12 

The    Would-be-Genteel    Lady.      By    Mrs. 

Charles  Sedgwick ► . . . .  15 

At  Home.     By  Mrs.  Anna  Bache 62 

To  the  Whip-poor-will "73 

The  Child's  best  Friend 75 

Napoleon  and  the  Iron  Crown.     By  Gren- 

viLLE  Mellen 76 

The  Barlow  Knife.     By  Robert  Jonathan.  81 

Ge'-trude.     By  Miss  A.  D.  Woodbridge.  ..  97 

SodusBay 99 

Mary  Wallace  :  a  Juvenile  story 102 

The   Genoese  Emigrant.     By  Miss  E.   M. 

Allison •  158 

Sonnet :  on  a  Sleeping  Infant 168 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


Child  of  my  Heart 169 

May  Morning 170 

My  First  Born  :  the  hour  of  her  birth 172 

Condy  O'Neal 173 

On  the  Hudson.     By  Miss  E.  M.  Allison.  ,  193 

Charades 206 

The  English  Flower 207 

The  Young  Mother 209 

The  Isle  of  Rest 215 

The  Italian  Lover 218 

The  Fate  of  the  Hornet 228 

A  Vision 232 

«  I'll  think  of  thee,  Love  " 234 

Cottage  Life 236 

The  Guardian  Watcher 238 

interrogatories ,  = . .  239 

Gnadenhutten 241 


I 


1  1 


THE  MOTHER'S  JEWEL. 


» 


BY   THE    AUTHOR    OF    "THE    BROTHERS. 


'*  These  are  my  gems,"  'the  Roman  mother  cried, 
Her  bright  lip  wreathed  in  smiles  of  sunny  pride, 
**  These  are  my  gems,"  as  o'er  each  infant  head 
Superbly  fond  her  high-born  hands  she  spread ; 
This,  with  dark  eyes,  and  hyacinthine  flow 
Of  raven  tresses  down  a  neck  of  snow — 
That,  golden-haired,  with  orbs  whose  azurn  hue 
Had  dimmed  the  Indian  sapphire's  deathless  blue. 
"  These  are  my  gems  !  bring  ye  the  rarest  stone, 
"  That  ever  flashed  from  Eastern  tyrants'  throne  ! 
"  Bring  amber,  such  as  those"  sad  sisters  gave, 
"  Vain  bribes  to  still  the  rash  relentless  wave  I 

1.  Cornelia,  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi. 

2.  The  sisters  of  Phaeton,  whose  tears,  for  the  fate  of  their 
brother  drowned  in  the  river  Eridanus,  were  metamorphosed 
into  amber,  according  to  the  poets. 

1* 


6/,'  '    '    ':   ;    THE  iioTiiEr.'s  jewel. 

m 

"  Bring  diamonds,  such  as  that^  false  matron  wore, 
"  Bought  by  their  sheen  to  break  the  faith  she  swore, 
"  Who  lured  to  death  foredoomed  her  prophet  lord, 
"  To  death  more  certain  than  the  Theban  sword. — 
"  Bring  gauds,  like  those  which  caught  Tarpeia's* 

eye, 
*'  Fated  beneath  her  treason's  price  to  die  ! — 
"  And  I  will  match  them — yea  !  their  worth  outvie 
"  With  that,  nor  art  can  frame,  nor  treasure  buy, 
"  Nor  force  subdue,  nor  dungeon  walls  control — 
"  Each  precious  gem — a  freeborn  Roman  soul ! 
"Know   ye    not,   how  —  when   quaked    the    solid 

earth, 
"  And  shook  the  seven  hills,  as  at  Titan's  birth, — 

3.  Eriphyle,  the  wife  of  Amphiaraus  the  prophet,  who, 
bribed  by  a  rich  necklace,  prevailed  on  her  husband  to  be 
one  of  the  seven  chiefs  against  Thebes,  under  Adrastus, 
although  she  knew  that  he  was  fated  to  perish  there  if  he 
should  go — as  he  in  fact  did,  being  swallowed  by  an  earth, 
quake. 

4.  Tarpeia.  The  Roman  virgin,  who,  agreeing  to  admit 
the  Sabine  troops  then  besieging  the  capitol,  on  condition 
that  she  should  receive  that  which  the  soldiers  wore  on  their 
left  arms,  meaning  their  golden  bracelets,  as  the  reward  of 
her  treachery,  was  overwhelmed  and  crushed  to  death  by 
their  bucklers;  which  Titus  Tatius,  their  commander,  ordered 
every  warrior  to  cast  upon  her  as  he  passed  the  gate. 


THE    mother's    jewel. 


"When  the  proud  forum  yawned — a  gulf sowiie 
"  Rome's  navy  in  its  space  secure  might  ride — 
"  When  pale-eyed  prophets  did  the  fate  declare, 
"  That  dread  abyss  should  yawn  for  ever  there, 
"  Till  Rome's  best  jewel,  darkly  tombed  within, 
"  The  gods  should  soothe,  and  expiate  the  sin  ! — 
"  Know  ye  not,  how  their  robes  of  Syrian  hue 
''  To  the  sad  King  the  trembling  matrons  threw  ? 
"  What  flower-crowned  captives  bled,  the  abyss 

to  close  ? 
"  What  Syrian  perfumes  from  the  brink  arose  ? 
"  What  sculptured  vases  of  barbaric  gold, 
•'  What  trophied  treasures,  through  its  void  were 

rolled  ? 
"  What  sunbright  gems — onyx  and  agate  rare, 
"  And  deathless  adamant — were  scattered  there  ? 
"  But  not  in  gold,  nor  gems,  nor  Tyrian  die, 
*'  Trophies,  nor  slaves,  did  Rome's  best  treasure  lio! 
"  His  limbs  superb  in  war's  triumphant  guise, 
"  His  soul's  high  valor  flashing  from  his  eyes, 
"  His  courser  chafing,  impotently  bold, 
"  Against  the  hand  that  well  his  fire  controlled, 
"  Forth  !  forth  he  rode,  in  native  worth  sublime, 
"  Unstained  by  fetters,  ignorant  of  crime ! 
"  Forth  !  forth  he  rode,  to  play  the  martyr's  part— 


THE    mother's    jewel. 


'Rome's  richest  jewel — *a  right  Roman  heart 
'  'So  may  the  gods  avert  my  country's  doom, 
"I  rush  in  triumph  to  my  living  tomb ! 
"Rome  hath  no  jewel  worthier  earth's  embrace, 
' '  Than  one  free  warrior  of  her  fearless  race  ! — ' 
"Fearless  I  come  and  free ! — Accept  the  gift, 
"Dark  Hades!' — leaped  the  youth — and  closed 

the  rift — 
'  And  rolled  the  cloudless  thunder — Jove's  assent 
'  That  Rome's  best  jewel  to  the  abyss  was  sent ! 
'  These  are  my  gems !     Each  for  his  country's 

weal 
'  Devote  to  raging  fire,  or  rending  steel — 
'  So  loner  to  live — so  soon  to  die — as  she — 
'  She  only  !— -shall  determine  and  decree  ! — 
'Blest  that  I  am,  to  call  such  jewels  mine — 
'  All  else  to  fate  contented  I  resign  ; 
'  Contented — if  they  mount  the  curule  chair, 
'  Its  best  adornment — I  shall  view  them  there  ! 
'  Contented — if  they  fill  a  timeless  grave — 
'  Their  wounds — their  wounds  of  honor — I  shall 

lave ! 


5.  Quintus  Curtius,  who  devoted  himself  to  his  country't 
»fety,  as  described  above. 


THE    mother's    jewel. 


"Secure  in  each  event,  Cornelia's  race 
"  Shall  live  with  glory — die  without  disgrace  ! 
"  Secure,  that  neither — even  in  hopeless  strife — 
"  Shall  turn  upon  his  heel  to  save  his  life ! 
."Secure,  that  neither — heaven  itself  to  buy — 
"  A  foe  shall  flatter,  or  a  friend  deny  ! 
''These  are  my  gems! — Give  ye  your  country 

such — 
"  So  shall  ye  put  your  vauntings  to  the  touch — 
"  Or,  yielding  me  the  palm,  your  boast  disown — 
"Your  diamonds  may  not  match  what  I  have 

shown  I" 


10 


SWEET  STREAM. 


1. 


Sweet  stream,  that  from  the  thickets  free, 
Comest  dancing  in  thy  mountain  glee  — 
The  thirsty  traveller's  smiling  friend  — 
To  my  reproachful  plaint  attend. 


[T. 


The  time  's  long  past,  since  here  I  laid 
My  limbs  beneath  the  green-tree's  shade; 
Yet  grateful  on  thy  waves  I  look, 
Nor  e'er  forget  my  favorite  brook. 

III. 

I  am  changed,  sweet  stream,  and  sadly  changed, 
Since  mid  these  verdant  fields  I  ranged. 
I've  proved  the  world,  and  learned  how  few 
Of  Hope's  beguiling  dreams  were  true. 


SWEET   STREAM. 


IV.' 


And  now  I  fain  to  thee  would  fly 
For  sympathy  which  men  deny — 
Yet  heed'st  thou  not  my  spirit's  pain  ! 
Even  here  my  weary  search  is  vain. 


V. 


Why  nourish  still  this  turf  of  green  ? 
These  flowers  my  early  joys  have  seen 
Why  linger  yet  soft  breezes  here, 
As  when  they  dried  no  falling  tear  ? 

VI. 

And  thou,  in  freshness  glancing  by. 
Dost  pause  not  for  the  wanderer's  sigh  ? 
Thy  current  which  no  murmur  hears, 
Flows  swifter  for  mv  added  tears. 


12 


STANZAS. 

BY  MISS  ELIZABETH  M.  ALLISON. 

i  BA\N,  in  this  lone  hour,  I  snatch  my  lyre, 
O'er  which  the  chain  of  silence  long  has  lain, 
To  wake  once  more  the  too  neglected  strain  ; 

Ah !  could  I  touch  it  with  immortal  fire, 
And  pour  the  burning  melody  of  song 
In  one  full  tide  its  thrilling  chords  along. 

/lias !  from  me  has  fled  the  power  of  song, 
That  once  flung  its  deep  crimson  sun-like  glow 
Of  promise,  o'er  my  path  of  life  below, 

In  deep-toned  visions,  such  as  not  belong 

To  things  of  earth,  but  float  with  forms  of  air 
In  the  bright  realms  of  space  like  hourie's  fair. 

But  see,  again  what  spells  around  me  lour, — 
Forms  such  as  Dante  pictured  in  that  hell, 
His  proud  soul  bursting  in  his  lone  farewell 

From  exiled  Florence,  flash  my  view  before: 


STANZAS.  13 

With  Tasso's  heroes  armed  in  holy  fight, 

Or  Ariosto's  bower  for  nymph  and  en  ant-knight. 

Thou  too  !*  to  whom  a  poet's  fire  was  given, 
And  all  a  poet's  quenchless  thirst  of  fame, 
Quick  kindling  fancies,  half  of  air  and  flame, 

Passions  and  feelings  born  but  to  be  riven, 

What  though  denied  to  vent  in  verse  their  forco 
In  poesy  was  their  impassioned  source. 

How  wild  soe'er  the  dreams  born  in  that  mind 
ByVevay's  bank,  they  link  thee  with  the  few 
Whose  bright  reward  the  laurel  and  the  rue, 

Emblem  of  suffering  and  of  fame  were  twined 
In  the  undying  wreath — and  must  such  be 
The  poet's  crown  of  immortality  ? 

Change  we  the  chords,  and  wake  another  strain ; 

Too  high  aspirings  in  my  bosom  swell, 

As  spirits  hallowed  each  by  the  bright  spell 
Of  burning  poesy  come  o'er  my  brain, 

Till    every  nerve  with    o'er    wrought   feeling 
fraught, 

Throbs  with  a  pained  intensity  of  thought. 

*  Rousseau. 


14  STANZAS. 

Why  was  my  soul  thus  proudly  taught  to  soar  ? 
Why  were  these  visions  wakened  in  nny  breast, 
These  wild  ambitionings  that  mar  its  rest, 

Scathing,  as  if  with  fire,  its  inmost  core, 
With  bright  imaginings  of  other  sphere 
Launched  from  their  former  source  ;  what  do 
they  here  ? 

Ah !  if  the  muse  bestowed  them  but  in  vain, 
Meaning  them  ne'er  to  glow  to  deeds  of  fire, 
But  sent  like  lightnings,  in  their  fatal  flame 

To  sear  all  verdure  from  the  smiling  plain  j 
Take  back  the  power  of  song,  the  Muses'  fire, 
And  grant  that  bliss  which  humbler  themes  in 
spire. 


15 


THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY. 

BY  MRS.  CHARLES  SEDGWICK. 

In  such  a  country  as  ours — a  country  of 
"  workies  "  —  where  there  exists  no  privileged 
class,  falsely  so  called,  unless  idleness  and  ennui 
are  privileges,  one  might  suppose  that  a  passion 
for  gentility  would  be  confined  to  the  fashionable 
circles  of  the  city ;  that  the  bees  would  as  soon 
be  found  giving  preference  tO  fashionable  flowers, 
or  aiming  at  a  fashionable  style  of  architecture 
In  their  hives,  as  the  busy  matrons  and  maidens 
of  New  England,  for  instance,  directing  their 
thoughts,  mainly,  to  genteel  modes  of  living, 
dressing,  and  behaving. 

Doctor  Johnson  derives  the  word  genteel,  from 
the  Latin  word  gentilis  :  meaning  "  of  the  same 
house,  family  name,  ancestry,  etc."  Its  meaning 
has,  probably,  undergone  as  many  modifications 
as  the  word  heretic,  of  which  the  most  accurate 
definition  I  have  ever  heard  was  given  by  a  young 
boy  of  twelve :  "A  heretic  is  a  person  that  don't 


16  THE  WOULD-BE-GEXTEEL  LADY. 

believe  as  you  do."  It  is  plain  he  had  not 
obtained  this  information  from  books,  but  from 
society.  In  like  manner  an  ungenteel  person  is, 
with  many,  one  who  does  not  live,  dress,  and  act, 
in  all  respects,  as  they  do.  The  orthodoxy  of  one 
age  or  country,  is  the  heresy  of  another ;  and  the 
gentility  of  one,  is  the  vulgarity  of  another. 

Thus  it  is  with  fashion,  the  handmaid  of  gen- 
tility ;  who  has  been  well  described  as  a  jade  that 
stalks  through  one  country  with  the  cast-off  clothes 
of  another ;  and  the  modes  and  forms  of  gentility 
are  as  variable  as  the  wayward  humors  of  those 
vacant-minded  people  who  lead  the  fashion. 

How  much  more  respectable,  how  much  more 
American  it  would  be  for  us,  of  this  country,  to 
limit  the  word,  in  our  application  of  it,  to  some 
thing  like  its  original  meaning,  and  make  gentility 
consist  in  living  and  acting  conformably  to  the 
circumstances  of  one's  family  or  station — not  in  a 
slavish,  ignoble  imitation  of  comparatively  a  few 
self-styled  favored  mortals,  whose  lot  is  cast  in  a 
different,  but  not  a  happier  sphere. 

There  is  one  indispensable  condition  of  absolute 
gentility,  in  the  popular  sense,  which  very  few 
in  our  country  can  command,  viz.  an  exemption 
fram  labor;  and  a   hard  condition  it  is — not  foi 


THE   WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  17 

those  who  lose  caste  on  its  account,  but  for  those 
who,  by  fulfilling  it,  acquire  caste.  God  made 
us  to  be  active  in  mind  and  body — he  gave  a 
spring  to  universal  being — and  standing  water  is 
the  fit  emblem  of  a  stagnant  life.  But  even  those 
to  whom  this  exemption  may  seem  desirable,  can- 
not enjoy  it,  generally  speaking,  in  our  country. 

A  southern  gentleman,  describing  a  New  Eng- 
land  dinner,  said,  "  In  the  first  place,  at  the  head 
of  the  table  is  always  a  roasted  lady."  Now, 
although  a  southern  dinner  may  not  have  so  dis- 
pleasing an  accompaniment,  we  are  assured  by 
those  who  have  been  behind  the  scenes  in  fami- 
lies abounding  with  slaves,  that  the  mistress  her- 
self is  the  greatest  slave  of  all,  since  all  the  head- 
work,  and  some  part  of  the  handy-work  too,  must 
be  done  by  her ;  for  instance,  she  must  weigh  out 
the  food,  and  cut  out  the  garments  of  her  family 
servants. 

But,  notwithstanding  this  serious  obstacle,  no- 
where, we  are  assured,  is  there  such  a  strife  for 
gentility,  as  in  this  country,  where  every  other 
strife  most  incompatible  with  that,  is  perpetually 
carried  on. 

It  is  said  to  be  peculiar  to  us,  that  our  villages 
ape,  so  minutely,  the  fashions  of  our  cities ;  that 
B  2* 


18  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LAJJY. 

no  sooner  is  a  new  fashion  of  dress,  or  of  the 
sleeve  alone  of  a  dress,  introduced  into  the  city, 
than  straightway,  as  by  magic,  every  sleeve  in 
the  country,  from  the  shoulder  of  the  squire'a 
wife  to  that  of  her  youngest  maid,  is  fashioned 
precisely  after  the  same  model,  or,  if  varied  at  all, 
exaggerated  for  the  purpose  of  being  extremely 
fashionable.  The  stoutest  ploughboy  in  the  land 
will  not  think  of  being  married,  without  a  silk 
stockincr  to  his  brawny  foot.  Nor  do  our  female 
domestics  consider  their  wardrobe  quite  complete 
without,  at  least,  one  silk  gown  and  one  linen- 
cambric  pocket-handkerchief. 

And  how  soon  is  the  infection  caught  by  for- 
eigners who  come  among  us !  The  sturdy  Ger- 
man girl,  although  she  may  not  immediately  reject 
her  national  peasants'  costume  of  stout  cotton 
stripe,  and  foot-gear  adapted  to  the  out-of-door 
work  she  has  been  accustomed  to,  will  be  very 
likely  to  surmount  all  with  a  "tasty"  silk  hat. 
All  this  may  be  very  agreeable  as  a  proof  of  pros- 
perity ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  prosperity 
without  discretion,  is  as  unprofitable  as  zeal  with- 
out knowledge. 

We  laugh  at  these  demonstrations  in  our  infe- 
riors, without  considering  that  we  are  guilty  of 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  19 

absurdities  quite  as  palpable  to  those  in  another 
rank  from  ourselves.  It  is  said  that  ladies  of 
moderate  fortune  in  America,  dress  far  more  ex- 
pensively than  those  of  a  corresponding  rank  in 
Europe  ;  that  we  indulge  in  many  expensive 
articles  of  dress  which  they  would  not  think  of 
wearing. 

I  once  knew  a  lady  with  whom  the  passion  for 
gentility  amounted  almost  to  a  disease.  It  seemed, 
in  her,  an  innate  propensity,  or,  at  least,  it  was 
very  difficult  to  account  for  it.  Born  in  an  ob- 
scure country  village,  not  entitled,  either  by  her 
rank  in  life,  character,  education,  or  circumstances, 
to  take  precedence  of  her  compeers,  she  never- 
theless very  early  began  to  assume  airs  of  great 
consequence,  on  account  of  superior  notions  in 
regard  to  gentility.  Probably,  feeling  the  desire 
which  all  have  for  consequence,  and  having  noth- 
ing else  to  build  it  upon,  she  had  recourse  to  ex- 
traordinary precision  in  various  points  of  dress 
and  bearing,  in  which  she  vainly  imagined  gen- 
tility chiefly  to  consist. 

Her  father  was  a  shop-keeper,  or,  as  we  are 
accustomed  to  say,  a  merchant,  doing  business  or. 
a  small  scale ;  both  her  parents  were  uneducatec; 


2i)  THE    WOtTLD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

ignorant  and  small-minded  people,  but  simple  and 
unassuming.  Her  ideas  of  gentility,  therefore, 
had  been  principally  derived  from  novels,  and  from 
intercourse  with  some  of  her  companions  who  had 
enjoyed  a  privilege  she  greatly  coveted,  but  could 
not  be  allowed,  of  a  six  months'  residence  at  a  city 
boardinjT-school. 

As  a  young  lady,  the  great  objects  of  her  am- 
bition were  a  languid,  delicate  appearance,  and 
a  white  hand.  This  strange  perversion  of  the 
human  mind  is,  I  fear,  not  very  unfrequent  in 
young  ladies,  and  is  a  legitimate  consequence  of 
subscription  to  a  creed  which  virtually  says,  "  I 
believe  that  those  only  are  entitled  to  the  highest 
place  in  society,  who  have  nothing  to  do."  Health 
is  the  vulgar  privilege  of  the  working-man.  But 
what  a  total  absence  of  all  real  claims  to  interest 
and  admiration  is  implied  in  a  young  lady's  rely- 
ing for  them,  mainly,  upon  a  sickly  look  !  Who 
would  exchange  roses,  pinks,  and  lilies,  with  all 
their  beauty  and  fragrance,  for  the  pale  and  scent- 
less ghost-flower  ? 

My  heroine,  in  order  to  effect  this  favorite  ob- 
jcct,  had  recourse  to  means  which  I  should  not 
like  to  specify,  but  which  are  only  too  familiar, 


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THU  WOULD-BE-GEXTEEL    LAPY  21 

1  fear,  to  many  of  her  sex — until  her  health  be« 
came  so  seriously  impaired  that  she  was,  all  her 
life,  a  sufferer  in  consequence. 

Her  mother,  as  mothers  are  apt  to  be,  was  ex- 
ceedingly indulgent  to  her,  and  although  herself 
obliged  to  strain  every  nerve  in  order  to  bring  up 
comfortably  and  respectably  a  large  family,  upon 
very  limited  means,  seldom  obliged  her  to  put 
her  shoulder  to  the  burden.  If  it  did  sometimes 
happen  that  she  was  inevitably  called  upon  to  do 
other  than  some  of  the  "  light  work"  of  the  family, 
a  flood  of  tears  washed  out  the  disgraceful  stain. 
She  had,  therefore,  the  privilege  of  preserving 
her  hands  white,  while  her  mother's  wore  the 
vulgar  aspect  and  complexion  of  hard  drudgery. 
And  yet  this  abominable  selfishness  was  not  the 
"  original  sin"  of  her  nature  ;  it  was  the  result  of 
her  mind  being  diseased  on  the  subject  of  gen- 
tility. 

But  it  was  not  until  her  marriage,  when  she 
became  Mrs.  William  Rutherford,  and  attained  tc 
the  dignity  of  a  housekeeper  and  matron,  that  her 
passion  was  fully  developed.  This  was  one  of 
those  marriages  brought  about,  as  many  are  said 
to  be,  "  by  juxta-position."  William  Rutherford, 
the  son  of  a  farmer,  a  plain,  sensible,  energetic 


22  THE  WCULD-BE-GE^^EEL  LADY. 

young  man,  who  had,  very  honorably  to  himself, 
made  his  own  way  in  the  world,  studied  in  a 
lawyer's  office  overlooking  a  garden  in  which  our 
heroine  often  strayed. 

The  sight  of  a  pretty  girl  walking  among  the 
fiowers,  was  an  agreeable  variety  to  one  whose 
vision  rested  many  hours  in  the  day  upon  the 
grave-looking,  monotonous  pages  of  a  law-book. 
He  sometimes  joined  her,  and  she  gave  him  flow- 
ers, for  which,  without  any  reference  to  its  being 
genteel  or  ungenteel  to  like  them,  she  had  a  gen- 
uine admiration ;  and  a  jar  that  stood  upon  his 
study  table  was  daily  supplied  from  her  hand. 
She  was  rather  pretty,  excessively  neat  in  her  ap- 
pearance, and  seemed  always  amiable. 

The  most  energetic  person  in  the  world  is  not 
insensible  to  the  necessity,  or  at  least  the  agree- 
ahility  of  excitement,  and  by  degrees  the  plain, 
simple,  natural,  sensible  William  Rutherford  was 
led  on  until  he  plighted  heart  and  hand  to  this 
\ Gvy  pretensionary  diudi  hoWsh.  young  woman.  O 
the  rashness  of  young  men,  and  young  women, 
too,  in  these  momentous  matters ! 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  too  much  of  the  instmct 
of  a  New  England  woman  not  to  make  a  good 
housekeeper.      She  had  profited  by  the  lessons 


THE  WOULD-BE- CrENTEEL  LADY.  23 

received  from  her  notable  mother,  albeit  an  un- 
willing  and  truant  pupil.  She  was  excessively 
nice  in  her  habits,  and  would  have  her  house  in 
order  even  at  the  cruel  sacrifice  of  vulgar  person- 
al exertions  ;  but  these  were  kept  secret  as  possi- 
ble from  neighbors  and  visitors. 

An  unfortunate  visit  which  she  made,  the  first 
year  of  her  marriage,  to  a  cousin  who  had  married 
a  wealthy  merchant  in  New  York,  greatly  en- 
larged her  ideas  on  the  subject  of  gentility.  She 
had  previously  set  her  heart  upon  a  watch,  as  one 
of  the  ensignia,  (now  forsooth  that  very  convenient 
article  is  very  commonly  laid  aside  because  it  is 
vulgar  to  wear  it !)  but  now  she  had  in  addition 
constantly  before  her  eyes,  in  distant  perspective, 
a  Brussels  carpet,  hair  sofa,  mahogany  chairs, 
and  silver  forks.  These,  though  constituting  a 
small  part  of  her  cousin's  splendor,  were  almos* 
unknown  articles  in  the  village  where  she  lived, 
and,  therefore,  would  be  sufficient  to  distinguish 
her. 

Although  her  husband  was  a  thriving  lawyer, 
and  had  his  fair  proportion  of  the  business  done 
in  the  county,  yet  his  income  was  moderate ; 
and  having  amassed  no  property  previous  to  his 
marriage,  it  was  necessary  that  in  all  his  arrange- 


'24  THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY. 

ments,  he  should  have  reference  to  economy. 
Great  pains  were,  therefore,  necessary  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Rutherford  to  secure  these  objects  of  her 
ambition.  Never  did  a  politician  keep  moro 
steadily  in  view  what  are  supposed  to  be  the  poli- 
tician's aim,  office  and  power — never  did  the 
military  hero  keep  his  eye  more  steadfastly  fixed 
apon  the  wreaths  of  victory  with  which  he  hoped 
to  grace  his  brow,  than  did  Mrs.  Rutherford  upon 
her  hair  sofa,  Brussels  carpet,  mahogany  chairs, 
and  silver  forks.  For  these  she  lived,  and  for 
these  she  would  have  done  anv  thino- — but  die. 
There  is,  alas !  no  fashionable  furniture  for  the 
grave  ;  it, has  no  privilege  save  that  of  rest  to  the 
weary.  The  folly  of  "  garnering  up  one's  heart " 
in  the  cunning  but  perishable  works  of  man's  de- 
vice, in  outward  show,  is  very  striking  when  ex- 
hibited on  so  small  a  scale  ;  magnificence  covera 
up  the  folly  to  many  eyes. 

Objects  pursued  with  such  steady  determination 
are  almost  sure  to  be  gained  in  time.  Mrs.  Ru- 
therford practised  great  economy  with  reference 
to  their  attainment,  and  although  her  husband  had 
a  far  juster  sense  of  the  right  use  of  property, 
and  had  no  taste  for  making  more  show  than  his 
neighbors — what  will   not  a  quiet,   peace-loving 


THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  25 

man  do,  that  he  can  do,  to  tranqullize  the  restless, 
unsatisfied  spirit  of  his  wife  ? 

Poor  Rutherford  was  a  much  enduring  man. 
If  during  the  sitting  of  the  court,  (for  he  lived  in 
the  county  town,)  he  invited  some  brother  lawyers 
to  dine  with  him,  there  being  but  an  hour's  adjourn- 
ment, and  the  dinner  failed  to  appear  seasonably, 
no  earthly  consideration  would  have  induced  his 
wife  to  leave  the  room  and  inquire  into  the  reason 
of  the  delay — and  still  less  to  do  what  she  might 
toward  preventing  its  further  continuance :  be- 
cause it  would  be  ungenteel  for  the  lady  of  the 
house  not  to  be  sitting  in  state  with  her  guests — 
and  horribly  vulgar  to  be  supposed  conversant 
with  the  mysteries  of  the  kitchen. 

When  the  dinner  arrived  at  last,  if  her  only 
servant,  who  officiated  in  the  double  capacity  of 
cook  and  waiter,  were  obliged  to  leave  the  room, 
not  a  plate  must  be  passed  until  she  returned  to 
do  the  thing  according  to  rule.  No  consideration 
of  urgent  haste — of  comfort  or  convenience — was 
to  be  weighed  for  a  moment  with  that  of  having 
her  table  genteelly  served. 

But,  notwithstanding  her  extreme  anxiety  to 
do  the  honors  of  her  house,  in  what  she  supposed 
ll^e  most  approved  manner,  she  was  utterly  inca- 


26  THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY. 

pable  of  performing  the  most  important,  dignified, 
and  graceful  part  of  the  duty  of  a  hostess, — that 
of  contributing  to  the  intellectual  entertainment 
of  her  guests.  In  fact,  she  was  deplorably  igno- 
rant.  To  give  a  single  example :  The  conver- 
sation falling  one  day  upon  old  English  poetry,  a 
gentleman  said  to  her,  "  I  believe,  Mrs.  Ruther- 
ford, that  Pope  is  not  so  great  a  favorite  with  the 
ladies  as  formerly."  "  I  don't  know,  indeed,  sir," 
she  replied  ;  "  was  he  a  novelist  ?  Scott  is  the 
favorite  novelist  now,  I  believe." 

It  was  indispensable  to  her  system  to  have  al- 
ways the  air  of  being  waited  upon.  If  the  fire 
were  down  ever  so  low,  she  would  prefer  waiting 
any  length  of  time,  until  her  servant  of  all-work 
could  answer  the  bell,  rather  than  help  herself 
to  a  stick  of  wood,  although  close  at  hand.  A 
friend  knocking  for  admission,  might  almost  go 
away  without  getting  it,  if  there  were  no  one  but 
the  lady  of  the  house  to  open  the  door.  Even  a 
journey,  recommended  by  her  physician,  for  her 
only  child,  who  had  suffered  much  from  teething, 
was  not  to  be  thought  of,  because  the  additional 
expense  of  a  nurse  could  not  be  afforded  :  and  it 
was  so  vulgar  to  travel  with  a  young  child  without 
a  nurse  !      And  yet  she  was   not  an    unfeeling 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  27 

mother — she  would  do  anything  for  her  child 
that  was  not  vulgar.  Nights  of  weary  watchingj 
and  days  of  laborious  nursing,  she  submitted  tc 
with  true  maternal  devotion.  Even  in  his  very 
wardrobe,  her  husband's  comfort  was  abridged, 
in  conformity  with  her  notions  of  what  gentility 
required,  inasmuch  as  at  no  season  would  he  be 
allowed  a  cotton  shirt,  which  in  the  winter  he 
greatly  preferred. 

I  said  that  by  degrees  Mrs.  Rutherford  attained 
all   her  objects.     I  beg    her  pardon — the  silver 
forks  were  still  wanting  to  her  complete  happi- 
ness.    Against  these  her  husband  took  his  stand 
with  the  determination  of  a  desperate  man.     He 
said  they  were  very  proper  for  those  to  use  who 
were  born  with  silver  spoons  in  their  mouths — 
very  proper  for  those  who  could  afford  them ;  but 
for  a  young  man  in  his  circumstances,  the  intro- 
duction of  such  an  article  into  his  establishment 
would  be  perfectly  preposterous — that  silver  forks 
would  be  a  poor  inheritance  to  his  daughter,  pro- 
vided  he  left  her  nothing  to  eat  with  them.     Il 
was  so  very  unusual   for  her  husband  to  oppose 
her,   that   Mrs.   Rutherford    knew  his   opposition 
was  not  impulsive — not   lightly  resolved    upon; 
and  she  yielded  to  it  submissively. 


28  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

The  child  was  of  course  included  in  the  nio- 
ther's  plans  of  gentility.  She  was  not  suffered 
to  attend  school  for  fear  she  should  contract  vul- 
garity from  her  schoolmates.  Great  pains  v  ere 
bestowed  upon  her  dress  ;  and  as  what  is  deficient 
in  money  must  be  made  up  in  time,  there  was  a 
most  lavish  expenditure  of  what  is  still  more  val- 
uable than  money.  Then  she  was  prevented,  as 
far  as  possible,  from  doing  any  thing  for  herself. 

This  last  point,  however,  was  difficult  of  ac- 
complishment. Little  Caroline  herself  was  an 
extremely  smart,  active,  capable  child ;  and  such 
a  one,  who  feels  the  energy  stirring  within  her, 
cannot  well  be  prevented,  in  such  a  very  unarti- 
ficial  state  of  things  as  exists  in  a  village  family, 
from  exerting  it. 

It  is  not  often  that  a  child  derives  benefit  from 
her  mother's  absurdities  ;  but  Caroline  Rutherford 
was  an  exception.  The  very  opposition  she  met 
with  confirmed  all  her  natural  tendencies  to  la- 
tionality  ;  and,  in  consequence  of  her  being  exclu- 
ded from  the  schools,  her  father  took  great  pains 
with  her  education,  while  her  mother  paid  a  de- 
gree of  attention  to  her  manners  ;  which,  though 
it  could  not  render  her  formal,  (no  training  could 
have  produced  that  result  in  her  case,)  had  the 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  29 

effect  io  make  her  considerate  and  attentive. 
She  grejv  up,  therefore,  a  very  pleasing,  lovely 
girl. 

When  she  was  about  the  age  of  fourteen,  a 
very  exciting  event  occurred  in  their  quiet  village. 
A  gentleman  of  fortune,  who  had  determined  to 
remove  into  the  country,  attracted  by  its  healthy 
and  picturesque  location,  selected  it  for  his  future 
residence,  and  purchased  a  place  very  near  the 
dwelling  of  Mr.  Rutherford. 

This  circumstance  was  rejoiced  in  by  no  one 
so  much  as  by  Mrs.  Rutherford ;  and  would  have 
gone  far  toward  compensating  her  for  the  want 
of  silver  forks,  except  that  it  made  her  feel  the 
need  of  them  so  much  the  more ;  because,  "  how 
could  she  invite  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrison  to  dine 
without  them  ?" 

She  lost  no  time  in  calling  upon  her  new 
neighbors,  choosing  for  that  purpose  the  latest 
hour  compatible  with  the  country  dining  hour. 
She  had  previously  arrayed  herself  in  the  manner 
she  deemed  most  befitting  the  occasion ;  that  is, 
most  calculated  to  recommend  her  to  Mrs.  Garri- 
son as  a  person  of  undoubted  gentility,  viz  : 
with  a  dress  of  Gros  de  Berlin,  a  French  capo, 
silk  stockings,  etc.,  etc. 

3* 


30  THE    WOULD-BE -GENTEEL    LADY. 

To  her  surprise,  she  found  Mrs.  Garrison  in  a 
simple  gingham  morning  dress,  superintending 
the  nailing  down  of  a  carpet ;  for  her  house  was 
not  yet  in  order.  She  received  Mrs.  Rutherford, 
hawever,  in  a  very  easy  manner,  conducting  her 
to  an  adjoining  apartment ;  and  thus,  after  the 
usual  preliminaries,  was  the  turn  given  by  the 
latter  to  the  conversation. 

"  I  quite  pity  you,  Mrs.  Garrison,  for  having 
chosen  a  residence  in  the  country." 

"  Pity  me,  indeed  !  I  thought  all  people  who 
lived  in  the  country  were  fond  of  it.  Is  it  not  so 
with  you  ?" 

"  O  yes !  I  am  very  fond  of  flowers,  and  I 
think  the  country  moi'e  healthy  than  town ;  but 
then  we  have  such  trouble  with  our  servants. 
Such  a  thing  as  a  man-cook  is  quite  out  of  the 
question.  I  often  tell  my  husband  that  there 
would  be  some  sense,  and  some  pleasure  in  hav- 
ing one's  friends  to  dine  with  you,  if  one  could 
have  a  man-cook." 

"  A  man-cook,  indeed !"  replied  Mrs.  Garrison. 
"I  did  not  know  that  such  an  appendage  was 
ever  thought  of  in  the  country.  It  is  far  from  be- 
ing common  in  town  ;  and  for  myself,  I  have  never 


THE   WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  31 


employed  one.     If  I  can  get  good  women  I  shall 
be  entirely  satisfied." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  you  cannot  be  sure  even  of 
that ;  and  then,  if  your  servants  happen  to  leave 
youj  it  is  so  difficult  to  supply  their  places.  Really, 
Mrs.  Garrison,  to  be  left  as  we  are  exposed  to  be 
occasionally,  almost  without  any  help  at  all,  is  a 
calamity  almost  too  great  to  be  borne.  House- 
work is  so  odious,  so  disagreeable,  I  almost  loathe 
myself  when  I  am  obliged  to  take  hold  of  it.'' 

This  last  expression  led  Mrs.  Garrison  to  sus- 
pect  that  she  had  been  quite  accustomed  "  to  take 
hold  "  notwithstanding. 

"  But  your  country  ladies,  in  spite  of  these 
difficulties,  have  more  leisure  than  we  in  town. 
You  are  not  obliged  to  keep  one  servant  to  an- 
swer the  bell,  and  to  spend  the  best  part  of  the 
day  yourself  in  receiving  visits  from  a  set  of  idlers, 
as  formidable,  to  those  who  really  value  their 
lime,  as  the  unproductive  consumer  to  the  politi- 
cal economist." 

Here  Mrs.  Rutherford  found  herself  at  fault. 
She  looked  quite  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and  then 
replied — "  But  you  do  not  give  refreshments  to  your 
morning  visiters,  Mrs.  Garrison  ?  That,  I  am  told^ 
u  quite  out  of  fashion." 


32  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

"  And  then,  too,"  continued  Mrs.  Gkirrison,  nol 
appearing  to  notice  this  question,  ''  we  necessa- 
rily have  a  very  large  circle  of  acquaintance  foi 
many  of  whom  we  care  very  little  ;  whereas,  you 
in  the  country  can  limit  yourselves  as  much  as 
you  please  ;  and  society  is,  with  you,  on  altogether 
a  more  free,  unceremonious,  and  friendly  footing." 

"  But  then,"  replied  Mrs.  Rutherford,  "  country 
people  are,  most  of  them,  so  vulgar.  They  know 
nothing  of  the  forms  of  society." 

"  So  much  the  better.  In  large  circles  of 
society  they  are  necessary,  but  burdensome  ;  and 
I  expect  to  enjoy,  very  much,  a  more  simple,  un- 
shackled state  of  existence.  *  *  *  *  j  }^ad 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  daughter,  I  believe, 
this  morning  ;  a  charming  looking  girl." 

"  My  daughter  !  O  Mrs.  Garrison,  I  am  very 
sorry  indeed.  She  is  a  wild  girl  ;  and  her  father 
would  indulge  her  to-day  in  a  strawberrying  frolic, 
so  she  was  dressed  accordingly.  I  am  sure  she 
was  not  fit  to  be  seen." 

"  I  cannot  say  how  that  may  be,  for  my  atten- 
tion was  so  occupied  by  her  bright  eyes,  rosy 
cheeks,  and  laughing  smile,  that  I  did  not  notice 
her  dress  at  all.  But  the  most  proper  dress  is 
always  that  most  befitting  the  occasion ;  and  she 


THE    WOULD-BE -GENTEEL    LADY.  33 

looks  to  me  like  a  girl  of  too  good  sense  not  to 
have  regard  to  the  fitness  of  things  at  all  times." 

"  Dress  is  another  o;reat  trouble  in  the  country, 
Mrs.  Gajrison.  There  is  never  a  good  dress- 
maker to  be  had.  You  may  have  your  dress  cut, 
to  be  sure,  after  a  fashionable  pattern ;  but  then 
i*  will  not  have  at  all  the  air  of  a  city-made  dress." 

"  But  I  thought,  Mrs.  Rutherford,  that  exemp- 
tion from  much  trouble  of  dress  was  another  of 
your  country  privileges.  In  town,  the  tailor  and 
dressmaker  are  the  most  important  personages,  to 
be  sure ;  since  it  is  not  man  as  God  made  him,  or 
as  he  has  made  himself,  but  as  the  tailor  makes 
him,  that  is  chiefly  respected  by  a  very  large 
class — and  so  with  woman ;  but  in  the  country, 
people  are  valued  for  their  intrinsic  merits — theii 
minds,  and  their  hearts.  This  is  their  privilege 
and  distinction." 

"But  I  think,  Mrs.  Garrison,  that  no  woman 
appears  well  who  is  not  well  dressed." 

"  If  you  mean^  by  being  well  dressed,  dressed 
with  neatness  and  propriety,  I  agree  with  you  ; 
but  city  finery,  habitually  worn,  would  seem  to 
me  as  much  out  of  place  on  the  person  of  a  cou» 
try  lady,  as  artificial  flowers  in  her  bosom." 

Mrs.  Rumerford  took  her  leave,  wondering  to 
C 


34  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LAP!'. 

find  Mrs.  Garrison,  a  lady  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  so  full  of  what  she  considered  very  odd 
notions ;  and  did  not  fail,  at  dinner,  to  communi- 
cate  to  her  husband  the  impression  she  had  re- 
ceived. 

''  I  am  thankful,"  he  replied,  "  that  sne  is  a 
woman  of  some  sense.  I  beg  your  pardon,  wife, 
but  really  your  head  is  completely  turned  upon 
the  subject  of  furniture,  dress,  etc.  ;  and  if  Mrs. 
Garrison  will  set  it  right,  she  will  do  the  greatest 
piece  of  service  in  the  world  that  could  be  ren- 
dered to  a  poor  fellow  like  me." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rutherford,  I  flattered  myself  you 
were  quite  proud  of  your  wife.  I  am  sure  it  is 
as  much  on  your  account  as  my  own,  that  I  wish 
to  hold  my  proper  place  in  society." 

■"  Your  proper  place !  Yes,  I  wish  to  heaven 
that  would  content  you ;  but  you  do  make  capital 
pies,  wife,  I  confess,"  he  said,  as  he  tasted  a  de- 
licious tart.  Mrs.  Rutherford  was  more  gratified 
by  his  commendation,  than  she  would  have  been 
had  she  understood  its  full  import. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Garrison,  in  relating  to  her 
husband  the  events  of  the  morning,  said  :  "  Wp 
talked,  you  know,  of  adapting  ourselves  to  the 
lastes,  manners,  and  habits  of  the  country ;  bu« 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  35 

here  is  a  village  lady  whose  head  is  as  full  of 
fashions,  modes,  and  rules  of  etiquette,  as  the 
finest  town-lady's  of  them  all.  How  should  it 
happen?" 

"  An  empty-headed  woman  I'll  be  bound,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Garrison.       * 

"  Well,  as  to  that  I  cannot  tell.  Slie  certainly 
gave  no  great  signs  of  intellectual  cultivation, 
and  that  is  the  case  with  most  of  our  fine  ladies 
in  town  ;  but  one  would  suppose  tha«t  in  the  coun- 
try, if  a  woman  did  not  love  books,  she  might 
busy  herself  in  her  domestic  occupations,  with 
bees,  birds,  flowers,  etc.,  without  being  driven  to 
dress  and  fashion  as  a  refuge  from  the  ennui  of  a 
vacant  mind." 

"  What  a  strange  race  we  are,"  rejoined  her 
husband,  "  to  make  it  our  boast  that  we  are  ra- 
tional beings.  T  think,  if  those  to  whom  man  is 
said  to  be  only  a  little  lower  look  down  upon  this 
busy  scene,  the  pursuits  of  the  gi eater  part  of 
men,  and  women  too,  must  seem  just  about  as 
important  as  the  children's  sport  of  blowing  soap- 
bubbles  seems  to  us.  One  thing  I  have  to  con- 
gratulate myself  upon — the  principal  lawyer  in 
the  village,  Mr.  Rutherford,  is  a  very  clever,  sen 
«)bie,  ^''^snectable  man  " 


5> 


36  THE    WOULD-BE- GENTIJEL    LADY. 

"He  must  be  tliis  very  lady's  husband." 

"  Poor  fellow  ^  I  am  sorry  for  him  then 

When  Caroline  Rutherford  returned  from  hei 
strawberrying  expedition,  which  had  been  very 
successful,  she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  carry 
some  of  her  strawberries  to  Mrs.  Garrison,  who 
by  her  sweet  voice  and  pleasing  address  had  made 
a  most  agreeable  impression  upon  her  in  their 
short  interview  in  the  morning. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  was  quite  shocked  at  the  sug- 
gestion. "  Why,  my  dear  child,  your  dress, 
shabby  enough  at  best,  is  all  in  disorder.  Your 
hair  is  out  of  curl,  and  you  are  red  and  heated. 
Besides,  it  is  much  more  proper  to  send  Sally 
with  them.  Get  me  a  piece  of  note  paper,  and 
will  write  a  note." 

"  O,  mother,  do  let  me  have  my  ov/n  way  U 
this  once." 

Her  father  nodded  in  a  manner  which  express- 
ed "  go,  my  child,"  and  she  was  off  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye. 

"  O  dear  me  !  Mr.  Rutherford,  Caroline  is  sc 
wild,  so  rustic,  I  am  afraid  Mrs.  Garrison  M'ill  be 
quite  disgusted  with  her." 

*'  Never  fear,  my  dear.  I  will  pit  my  wild 
flower   against   the    fi.n^'st   green-house   Dlant   o 


THE    WOUID-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  37 

them  all ;"  and  well  he  might  be  proud  ff  his 
wild  flower. 

In  spite  of  Caroline's  being  *'  such  a  rustic," 
Mrs.  Garrison  took  a  great  fancy  to  her  from  the 
beginning,  and  she  soon  became  a  favorite  with 
the  whole  family.  The  oldest  daughter,  Fanny, 
was  two  years  younger  than  Caroline,  and  two 
of  the  sons  were  older.  The  mother  was  not 
long  in  discovering  that  Caroline  would  be  a  most 
useful  associate  to  her  children  in  their  lessons ; 
and  she  invited  her  to  join  her  little  family  school. 
Her  iiwlustry,  energy,  and  quickness  were  a  con- 
stant stimulus  to  her  fellow-pupils.  Mrs.  Gar- 
rison taught  her  music  and  drawing,  which  almost 
made  Mrs.  Rutherford  forget  the  one  calamity  of 
her  life — the  doing  without  silver  forks. 

Notwithstanding  her  great  delight  when  Mr. 
Rutherford  ordered  a  piano  for  his  daughter,  she 
could  not  refrain  from  hintinsr  that  she  thought 
him  rather  inconsistent  in  incurring:  such  an  ex- 
pense,  after  what  had  passed  on  the  subject  of  the 
forks. 

"  No,  wife,"  said  he,  "  I  do  not  admit  this  at 
a"l.  The  forks,  in  our  case,  would  be  for  mere 
show  ;  but  the  piano  will  be  a  source  of  constant 
daily  enjoyment      The  pleasure  of  a  song  from 

4 


48  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY, 

Caroline,  accompanied  by  her  instrument,  is  t« 
me  v/orth  all  the  pomp  and  magnificence  of  a 
palace ;  'tis  '  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight.' 
Then,  think  how  she  enjoys  it !  Besides,  all  these 
things  add  to  the  resources  from  which  she  would 
not  fail  to  derive  her  support,  if  left  penniless 
to-morrow." 

That  Mr.  Rutherford  might  feel  no  scruples  of 
delicacy  in  regard  to  receiving  all  these  favors  for 
his  daughter,  Mrs.  Garrison  employed  her  to  assist 
in  teaching  the  younger  children. 

Caroline  often  excited  her  mother's  astonish- 
ment by  her  reports  of  what  was  going  on,  from 
time  to  time,  at  Mrs.  Garrison's.  One  day  they 
had  all  employed  the  recess  in  assisting  Mrs. 
Garrison,  in  country  phrase,  ''  to  clean  up  her 
yard;"  which,  in  this  instance,  amounted  only  to 
gathering  from  the  lawn  the  dry  leaves,  bits  of 
sticks,  etc.,  which  had  been  carelessly  left  behind 
by  the  person  who  had  been  sent  to  perform  that 
duty.  At  another  time  Caroline  had  had  the  sole 
charge  of  the  school  in  the  morning,  because 
Mrs.  Garrison,  reduced  to  extremities  by  some 
disarrangement  of  her  domestic  establishment, 
had  been  engaged  in  washing  windows !  and  per- 
forming  divers  other  services  of  a  similar  nature ; 


THE   WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  30 

but  "  1  can  tell  you,  mother,"  she  added,  "  that 
she  looks  just  as  much  like  a  lady  when  she  is 
washing  windows,  as  when  she  is  sitting  at  her 
drawing-board."  Occasionally,  when  the  waiter 
had  been  ill  or  absent,  one  of  the  children  had 
tended  table  in  her  stead ;  and  once,  when  one  of 
the  servants  was  laid  up  with  a  rheumatic  limb, 
her  mistress  would  bathe  it  herself,  several  times 
in  the  day,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  it  was  properly 
done.  But  the  greatest  wonder  of  all  was,  that  a 
young  sister  of  Mrs.  Garrison's  came  to  visit  her, 
brinfjinfr  an  infant  without  a  nurse  to  take  care  of 
it ;  and  not  only  that,  but  dragged  it  about  the 
streets  of  the  village  in  a  little  wicker  wagon,  while 
mother  and  child  were  both  so  pretty  as  to  attract 
every  body's  attention. 

At  the  expiration  of  two  years  after  their  first 
arrival  in  the  village,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrison  de- 
termined to  obtain  the  assistance  of  a  private  tutor 
in  the  education  of  their  children.  They  were 
fortunate  in  finding  a  young  man,  a  Mr.  Cleave- 
land,  of  accomplished  education  and  pleasing 
manners,  who  knew  how  to  make  his  pupils  like 
not  only  their  books  but  their  teacher  too.  He 
was  in  the  condition  of  many  young  men  in  our 
country,  whose   education    constitutes  ilieir  only 


40  THE    WOULD-BE-tJENTEEL    LADY. 

fortune.  He  wa?  destined  for  the  pulpit,  anJ  haa 
yet  to  acquire  his  profession  in  part. 

Fanny  Garrison,  accustomed  hitherto  only  to 
her  mother's  teaching,  could  not  be  reconciled 
to  the  idea  of  being  taught  by  a  strange  gentle- 
man, unless  Caroline  would  become  a  fellow- 
pupil.  Nearly  two  years  passed  away,  during 
which  Caroline  made  rapid  progress  in  various 
branches  of  education — outstripping  even  the  older 
boys  in  some  of  those  studies  which,  until  recently, 
have  been  almost  universally  regarded  as  inappro- 
priate to  women. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  already  begun  to  speculate 
upon  Caroline's  chances  in  the  matrimonial  lot- 
tery. She  had  no  doubt  that  such  a  girl,  with  a 
fine  countenance,  engaging  manners,  highly  edu- 
cated, and  full  of  vivacity,  *would,  in  time,  make 
"a  genteel  match."  Now  and  then  a  vague  fear 
that  young  Cleaveland  might  aspire  to  the  hand 
of  her  daughter,  crossed  her  mind  ;  but  did  not 
impress  itself,  because  it  was  "impossible  that  a 
girl  so  genteelly  bred  and  educated,  should  think 
of  marrying  a  poor  young  minister,  and  almost 
equally  so,  that  a  poor  young  minister  should 
think  of  aspiring  to  her." 

She  settled  it  in  her  own  mind,  that  if  Caroline 


THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEl    LAD"i  41 

should  have  altogether  a  suitable  offer  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years,  it  was  not  to  be  rejected  ; 
but  otherwise,  there  could  not  be  a  doubt  that 
Frank  Garrison's  present  youthful  fondness  for 
her  might  be  cultivated  into  a  permanent  senti- 
ment. The  country  maid  and  her  milk-pail  will 
remain  through  all  time  the  faithful  and  most  fit- 
ting  personification  of  a  castle-builder. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  could  not  forbear  communica- 
ting  to  her  husband  some  of  her  thoughts  upon  the 
subject  which  occupied  her  so  much,  and  de- 
claring, in  unequivocal  terms,  her  unwillingness 
to  Caroline's  making  only  a  "  common  match,"  on 
the  ground  of  her  being  a  fit  wife  for  a  man  of 
fortune,  and  qualified  to  grace  a  genteel  establish- 
ment. 

"Now,  I  will  tell  you  what,  wife,"  replied  her 
husband,  "  you  do  not  know  what  is  best  for  your- 
self or  her  either.  Caroline  is  just  the  girl  for  a 
good,  honest  fellow,  who  has  got  to  make  his  own 
way  in  the  world  ;  such  a  man  wants  just  such  a 
helper,  or  help-meet,  as  the  Bible  has  it.  It  would 
be  a  pity  to  have  her  good  sense,  and  fine  spirits, 
and  energy,  and  education  thrown  away  where 
lliey  ain't  wanted,  or  rather  where  they  won't  ne 
all  called  into  requisition  and  turned  to  the  greatest 

4* 


42  THE  WOULD-BE  GENTEEL  LADY. 

possible  account.  He  who  gets  his  living  oy 
hard  work,  whether  of  the  head  or  the  hands, 
wants  a  wife  who  will  order  well  his  house  and 
educate  his  children — who  will  strengthen  him 
in  weakness — encourage  him  in  despondency — 
confirm  him  when  irresolute — soothe  him  when 
irritated — comfort  and  bless  him  perpetually  with 
her  sympathy,  and  look  bright,  beautiful,  and  re- 
freshing to  him  when  the  day's  toil  is  over.  Now 
a  rich  man's  wife  need  not  do  any  thin£r ;  his 
wealth  can  command  the  aid  of  hands  enouo;h  and 
heads  enough,  without  hers.  Then  his  pleasures 
are  very  apt  to  be  in  a  great  many  ether  things 
besides  his  wife ;  and  a  woman  who  knows  how 
to  dress  smart,  and  receive  his  company  genteely, 
as  you  say,  will  do  very  well  for  him.  But  to  a 
poor  man  his  wife  and  children  are  his  all-in-all 
of  pleasure  ;  and  to  make  the  happiness  of  a  man 
who  has  every  thing  good  in  himself,  but  to  whom 
the  gifts  of  fortune  have  been  denied,  ought  to  be 
sufficient  to  satisfy  any  woman." 

Of  course  Mrs.  Rutherford  rejected  such  hereti- 
cal doctrines  altogether,  though  she  had  no  hope 
of  converting  him  who  professed  them. 

Meanwhile  the  simple,  happy  Caroline  mused 
not  of  love ;  she  was  too  happy — too  much  oc- 


THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  43 

cupied — too  well  satisfied  with  the  present,  to 
think  of  the  future.  Life,  with  her,  was  perpetual 
sunshine.  She  was  very  fond  of  her  father — 
had  a  kind  and  dutiful  feeling  toward  her  mother 
— loved  the  Garrisons  dearly — was  exceedingly 
interested  in  her  studies — and  liked  Mr.  Cleave- 
land  very  much.  She  liked  him  because  she 
found  his  assistance  very  valuable  to  her  in  her 
studies — because  he  was  not  only  exceedingly 
devoted,  in  his  office  as  teacher,  to  all  his  pupils, 
but  made  them  very  happy — because  he  mani- 
fested, in  all  situations,  great  delicacy  of  feeling 
and  the  kindest  consideration  for  others,  showing 
that  he  felt  deeply  and  tenderly  the  bonds  of  hu- 
man brotherhood — because  he  had  an  agreeable 
talent  at  conversation — because  he  loved  the 
water-falls,  fields,  rivers,  and  groves  as  well  as 
she  did,  and,  when  school  was  over,  liked  nothing 
better  than  to  ramble  and  sport  in  true  country 
fashion — and  lastly,  she  liked  him,  as  I  sup- 
pose, because  he  liked  her ;  for  a  reason  akin  to 
this,  enters,  more  or  less,  I  believe,  into  the  ra- 
tionale of  all  the  partialities  of  man  for  his  brother 
*ian. 

Mrs.  Garrison  felt  some  responsibility  in  regard 
lO  bringing  so  lovely  a  girl  as  Caroline  Ruther- 


44  THE  WOULD-BE -GEXTEEL  LADY. 

ford,  into  constant  association  with  a  marriageable 
young  man  of  no  small  attractions.  But  she  knew 
him  thoroughly — was  certain  that  he  was  worthy 
of  confidence,  and,  besides,  was  herself  constantly 
with  the  whole  groupe,  both  in  school  and  in  he 
hours  of  recreation. 

How  could  Charles  Cleaveland  but  fall  in  love  ? 
Not  at  first  sight — not  because  it  had  seemed  to 
him  a  very  probable  thing  that  he  should  ;  but 
because  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  he 
should  not — because  there  was  every  thing  to 
please  his  fancy,  gratify  his  afiections,  and  ap- 
prove itself  to  his  reason,  in  the  young  creature 
with  whom  he  was  daily  associated  in  interesting 
pursuits  and  delightful  recreations.  In  school 
she  was  that  paragon  of  perfection  to  a  teacher. 
a  diligent,  docile,  and  apt  pupil ;  by  the  stream, 
a  naiad ;  in  the  groves,  a  wood-nymph  ;  in  the 
garden  and  the  meadow,  the  ideal  of  a  bird  or  a 
butterfly.  How  could  she  but  come,  in  time,  to 
haunt  his  imagination  and  make  her  home  in  his 
heart,  in  one  and  all  the  bewitching  forms  of  love's 
metempsychosis  ? 

His  interest  had  been  for  some  time  deeply 
excited,  before  she  became  aware  of  the  state  of 
his  mind  or  her  own.     But  the  truth   gradually 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  45 

dawned  upon  her  when,  time  lifter  time  as  she 
raised  her  head,  she  found  him  intently  gazing 
upon  her ;  when  she  perceived  unwonted  ab- 
straction, on  his  part,  in  the  hours  of  her  recita- 
tions ;  when  she  found  herself,  by  some  strange 
magic  or  other,  meeting  him  at  every  turn,  as  if 
he  knew  all  her  out-fjoings  and  in-cominors  : 
when  his  visits  at  her  father's  hitherto,  on  ac- 
count of  her  mother's  forbidding  manners  few  and 
far  between,  became  more  and  more  frequent ; 
and  as  she  sat  at  the  piano,  where  he  always 
liked  to  place  her,  she  could  feel  the  intensity  of 
his  gaze  until  it  produced  a  burning  in  her  own 
cheek. 

Then  she,  too,  began  to  muse  of  him.  He  was 
the  subject  of  her  day-dreams  and  night-dreams; 
his  image  forever  in  her  mind ;  sleep  did  not 
displace  it.  It  was  there  when  she  closed  her 
eyes  to  sleep,  and  there  to  greet  her  at  the  first 
moment  of  her  waking.  The  animated  Caroline 
became  pensive ;  the  social  Caroline  began  to 
affect  solitary  walks  and  lonely  sittings  in  her 
chamber.  She  gazed  upon  the  moon,  or  she  list- 
ened to  the  murmuring  brook  or  the  whispering 
grove  ;  and  the  gay  and  joyous  feeling  with'which 
•he  had  been  accustomed  to  mingle  herself  with 


46  THE    AV(JULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

the  harmonies  of  nature,  gave  way  to  oriw  tf  sa« 
cred  tenderness,  as  ihey  seemed  to  her  spirit  to 
give  forth  a  deeper  tone. 

Still  her  natural  equanimity  came  in  aid  of  her 
maidenly  reserve  to  conceal  from  her  lover  the 
true  state  of  her  heart,  and  he  felt  by  no  means 
certain  that  his  love  was  requited.  But  neither 
was  he  hopeless ;  and  knowing  that  it  would  be 
difficult  for  him  to  carry  himself  toward  her  ats 
he  ouo-ht  during  the  three  months  that  still  re- 
mained  of  his  engasjement  with  Mrs.  Garrison 
Avithout  having  an  explanation  with  Caroline, 
which  it  would  be  improper  for  him  to  seek  while 
ne  stood  in  his  present  relation  to  her,  he  deter- 
mined to  ask  it  as  a  favor  of  Mrs.  Garrison  that 
she  would  release  him,  which  he  did,  of  course, 
without  assigning  his  principal  motive. 

The  morning  after  this  arrangement  was  made, 
Mrs.  Garrison  entered  the  school-room  just  as 
Caroline  was  finishing  a  recitation,  and  said, 
"  Now,  children,  do  your  best  to  leave  an  agree- 
able impression  upon  the  mind  of  Mr.  Cleaveland, 
who  is  going  to  resign  the  charge  of  yoii  in  two 
weeks." 

Poor  Caroline  turned  deadly  pale,  and  the  pale- 
ness w'as  instantly  succeeded   by  a  deep  blush. 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  47 

She  took  up  her  book  and  returned  instantly  to 
her  seat,  hoping  she  had  been  unobserved  ;  but 
she  was  mistaken.  Such  a  revelation  is  rarely 
lost  upon  a  lover;  and,  in  this  instance,  did  not 
escape  the  observation  of  Mrs.  Garrison. 

At  any  other  time,  ?»Ir.  Cleaveland  would  have 
been  gratified  by  the  lively  and  most  unaffected 
demonstrations  of  regret  with  which  the  announce- 
ment  of  his  speedy  departure  had  been  received 
by  the  whole  group  of  children.  But  now,  one 
deep  joy  swallowed  up  all  the  rest ;  and  his  utter 
inability  to  reply  to  them  would  have  been  ex- 
tremely  embarrassing,  had  not  Mrs.  Garrison 
kindly  and  considerately  relieved  him  by  a  re- 
quest that  he  would  look  into  a  new  school-book 
which  she  had  just  received. 

His  only  trouble  in  life  now,  was  the  intermi- 
nable duration  of  two  weeks.  That  period  of 
time  overpast,  he  would  declare  his  love,  and  then 
devote  himself  to  his  profession  with  the  intent 
to  hasten,  as  much  as  possible,  the  time  when  he 
might  claim  his  bride.  Meanwhile,  Caroline  had 
no  resource  but  to  put  on,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
appearance  of  being  more  than  ever  absorbed  in 
her  studies. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  had  not  been  unobservant  of 


46  TilK    WOULD- HE-GEXTEEL    LADY. 

the  signs  of  the  times  in  regard  either  to  Caroline 
or  Cleaveland,  and  felt  extremely  nneas}'  and 
anxious.  Her  husband,  on  the  contrary,  she 
knew  would  like  nothing  better  than  just  such  a 
match  for  his  daughter ;  and  therefore  she  deter- 
mined, in  the  present  emergency,  to  keep  her  own 
counsels  and  act  for  herself. 

During  this  last  memorable  fortniglit,  Cleave- 
land almost  entirely  suspended  his  visits  to  the 
Rutherfords,  and  his  intercourse  with  Caroline, 
except  as  her  teacher ;  because  he  found  it  al- 
most impossible  to  carry  himself  toward  her  as 
circumstances  required. 

On  the  last  day  Caroline,  although  she  had 
got  up  with  a  violent  headache,  would  not  re- 
main at  home  for  fear  of  exciting  suspicion  or 
remark ;  but  her  illness  was  so  apparent,  that 
Mrs.  Garrison  had  insisted  upon  her  leaving  the 
school. 

Cleaveland  had  not  seeined  nearly  as  much 
occupied  with  herself,  as  usual,  ever  since  his  de- 
parture had  been  determined  upon.  She  was  in 
no  state  to  solve  the  problem  of  this  change  by 
an  argumentative  process,  and  she  began  to  thinl, 
she  had  deceived  herself — that  she  had  beer 
merely  an  agreeable  and  exciting  circumstanco 


THE  WOVLD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  49 

in  the  present  scene  of  his  residence — no  longer 
valued  when  he  was  so  soon  to  exchange  it  for 
another.  When  she  went  home,  therefore,  she 
threw  herself  upon  her  bed,  and  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears. 

Meanwhile  her  lover  with  difficulty  possessed 
his  soul,  until  the  hour  of  emancipation  came,  and 
ne  felt  at  liberty  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet.  He 
then  went  in  pursuit  of  her,  in  the  sweet  hope  that 
by  a  few  rnagic  words — the  lover's  sesame — he 
should  unlock  her  carefully  guarded  heart,  and 
find  its  wealth  all  his  own.  No  one  was  at  home 
but  Mrs.  Rutherford. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Caroline  ?" 

"  She  has  gone  to  walk — " 

"  Gone  ? — which  way  ?" 

There  was  something  in  his  manner  which 
revealed,  or,  at  least,  led  Mrs.  Rutherford  to  sus- 
pect the  nature  of  his  errand.  She  believed  that 
the  crisis  had  come,  and  that  now,  if  ever,  was  the 
moment  for  interference. 

To  his  questions  she  only  replied,  evidently 
somewhat  embarrassed,  "  Mr.  Cleaveland,  I  want 
to  speak  a  word  with  you." 

He  was  already  on  his  way  out,  and  turned 
most  reluctantly. 

D  5 


50  THE    WOULO-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

"  Walk  into  the  parlor  a  moment,  Mr.  Cleave, 
land.  I  don't  know  how  Mr.  Rutherford  feels 
about  this  business,  but  I  think  that,  as  a  mother, 
I  have  a  better  right  than  any  one  else  to  decide 
about  it." 

Cleaveland,  at  first,  would  not  guess  to  what 
she  referred  ;  and,  perceiving  that  he  did  not  un- 
derstand her,  she  continued  :  "  I  know  it  is  a  very 
delicate  matter  for  me  to  take  it  for  granted  that 
you  would  like  to  marry  Caroline.  If  I  am  mis- 
taken, there  is  no  harm  done,  and  you  will  ex- 
cuse me  ;  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  would  be  too 
late,  aftar  you  young  people  had  settled  the  matter 
between  you,  for  me  to  express  my  decided  dis- 
approbation of  it,  and  therefore  I  do  it  now.  I 
appeal  to  you,  Mr.  Cleaveland,  as  a  mother, 
whose  soul  is  bound  up  in  her  child,  to  give  up 
all  thoughts  of  a  connection  which  would  fall 
7ery  far  short  of  my  hopes  and  wishes  for  my 
laughter." 

For  a  moment,  poor  Cleaveland  sat  like  one 
jtupified.  Then,  without  any  parting  salutation 
to  Mrs.  Rutherford,  without  even  a  single  word  in 
reply  to  her  strange  harangue,  he  hastily  left  the 
house.  He  retreated  to  his  own  room ;  but  ex. 
perienced   there    a   stifling   sensation,   which   he 


THE  WOULD-BK  GENTEEL  LADY.       51 

thought  to  relieve  by  going  into  the  open  air;  and 
pursuing  his  way  to  a  favorite  haunt,  he  met 
Caroline  just  emerging  from  the  little,  grove  he 
was  about  to  enter. 

Not  daring  to  trust  himself  with  her  a  moment, 
and  unable  to  command  his  voice,  he  hastily  pass- 
ed her  with  hardly  the  seeming  of  a  recognition. 
Her  headache  had  left  her  much  exhausted,  and  a 
dizzy  faintness  now  came  over  her^  so  that  it  was 
with  great  difficulty  that  she  reached  her  home, 
although  not  very  far  distant. 

Meanwhile  her  lover  was  ^n  a  most  piteous 
state  of  agitation  and  perplexity.  Was  ho  obliged 
in  honor  to  heed  the  matrimonial  veto  ?  Believ- 
ing that  Caroline  was  attached  to  him,  was  it 
right  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  of  his  love  ?  Her 
father,  too,  had  given  him  the  most  undoubted 
proofs  of  his  esteem ;  and  so  far  from  showing  any 
jealousy  or  suspicion  of  him,  had  always  ac- 
quiesced entirely  in  all  those  arrangements  which 
had  brought  them  together  so  much,  might  he  not 
refer  the  matter  to  him  ?  But  to  appeal  to  the 
husband  against  his  wife — to  the  daughter  against 
her  mother — this  would  be  neither  manly  nor 
delicate,  perhaps  not  honorable  ;  he  \^  as  not  quite 
sure.     To  fly,  then,  was  his  only  refuge. 


52  THE  WOULD-BE-GL\TEEL  LADY. 

He  wrote  a  nolo  to  Mrs.  Garrison,  complaining 
of  illness,  saying  that  he  had  been  induced,  by 
unexpected  circumstances,  to  leave  town,  con- 
trary to  his  first  intentions,  on  the  following  day ; 
but  that,  on  the  whole,  he  preferred  not  taking 
leave  of  them  personally,  as  the  parting  would, 
on  his  part,  be  a  very  painful  one.  He  thanked 
her,  in  glowing  terms,  for  all  her  kindness,  adding, 
that  he  never  expected  to  be  so  happy  again  as 
under  her  roof. 

Mrs.  Garrison  was  surprised  by  this  last  ex- 
pression ;  surprised  by  his  hasty  departure,  and 
by  his  omitting  to  make  his  adieus  in  person  ;  and 
had  a  vague  idea  of  some  mystery  in  the  matter, 
which  she  hoped  time  might  solve.  He  went  off 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning:. 

Mrs.  Rutherford  took  especial  care  to  conceal 
the  fact  of  his  having  called  to  see  her,  from 
Caroline,  who  forbore  to  make  any  inquiries  ;  and 
Mr.  Rutherford  being  out  of  town,  no  investigation 
was  made  upon  the  subject. 

Poor  Caroline !  her  brightness  was,  for  the 
present,  all  obscured.  Her  headache  returned 
violently,  and  she  was  really  ill  for  some  days ; 
but  even  after  she  had  no  longer  an  excuse  for 
playing  the  invalid,  her  spirits  did  not  return ; 


THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  53 

she  had  sleepless  nights  and  languid  days,  and 
her  very  soul  seemed  to  have  died  away  within 
her. 

Her  father  was  excessively  distressed.  At 
first  he  tried  to  rouse  her  spirits  by  a  little- raillery. 
"  You  remind  me,"  said  he,  "  of  a  fine  peach-tree 
which  I  came  near  losing  last  spring.  It  \vas  in 
full  life  and  beauty,  just  as  you  were,  but  suddenly 
a  blight  came  over  it  which  threatened  its  destruc- 
tion.  I  dug  around  the  root  and  found  one  little 
worm  there — that  removed,  the  tree  flourished 
again." 

Poor  Caroline  made  no  reply,  but  burst  into 
tears  and  retreated  to  her  room. 

"  There  is  a  canker-worm  at  the  root,  you  may 
depend  upon  it,  wife ;  and  it  appears  to  me  that 
you  might  detect  it." 

Mrs.  Rutherford  looked  as  if  she  were  a  little 
disturbed  at  the  idea  of  any  investigation. 

"  If  you  do  know,  wife,"  said  he,  "  and  don't 
choose  to  reveal  what  you  know,  the  responsibility 
rests  with  you,  and  her  blood  be  upon  your  head. 
Tell  me,  now,  what  is  your  idea  upon  the  subject, 
has  not  Caroline  been  unhappy  ever  since  young 
Cleaveland  went  away  ?" 

"  Yes." 


54  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY. 

"Did  you  ever  think  that  they  were  in  love?" 

"  I  thought  he  was." 

"  And  yet  he  went  off  without  broaching  the 
matter  at  all.  If  it  is  all  on  her  part,  the  thing 
must  be  submitted  to  ;  and  yet  it  seems  to  me  he 
could  hardly  help  falling  in  love  with  her." 

"  No,  indeed  !"  said  Mrs.  Rutherford,  gathering 
courage  to  do  now  what  she  had  half  resolved  to 
do  before,  "  he  did  fall  in  love  with  her." 

"  Then  why  did  he  not  tell  her  so  ?" 

"  Because  I  forbade  him." 

"  Did  he  apply  to  you  on  the  subject  ?" 

"  No.     I  applied  to  him." 

"  Then  how  could  you  be  certain  that  he  had 
any  design  of  offering  himself  to  her?" 

"  You  would  not  have  had  any  doubt  of  it  had 
you  seen  him  as  I  did  ;  and  besides,  he  would 
have  denied  it  if  it  had  not  been  so." 

"  O  wife  !  what  was  your  inducement  ?  He  is 
not  genteel  enough  for  you,  I  suppose.  Confound 
your  genteel  notions,"  he  continued,  as,  losing 
control  of  himself,  he  becanie  exceedingly  exas- 
perated ;  "  I  would  give  all  the  gentility  you  ever 
had,  or  ever  can  have,  for  a  few  grains  of  sense 
or  common  maternal  feeling.  I  knew  you  would 
give  up  health,  and  comfort;  and  good  neighbor- 


THE    AVOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  55 

hood,  and  your  own  soul,  if  necessary,  for  gentiU 
ity ;  but  I  thought  your  child  was  dearer  to  you 
than  j^our  own  soul." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Rutherford,  I  do  really  think  you 
are  very  unkind,"  said  the  lady,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  How  the  devil,"  he  continued,  without  heed- 
ing her  emotion,  "  did  you  ever  come  to  marry 
such  an  ungenteel  fellow  as  I  am,  and  thus  es- 
tablish a  precedent  for  your  daughter  to  follow  ? 
Go  and  comfort  her,  and  say  to  her,  '  My  dear, 
console  yourself  that  I  have  saved  you  from  the 
disgrace  consequent  upon  such  a  connection  as  I 
had  the  misfortune  to  form.'  Tell  her  never  to 
mind  losing  the  chance  of  being  made  happy  by 
a  capital  fellow  v.'hom  she  loves,  and  who  loves 
her,  because  by-and-by,  if  she  live  long  enough, 
she  may  possibly  marry  a  money-purse,  ride  in 
a  carriage,  tread  on  Brussels  carpets,  and  have  a 
plenty  of  mirrors  and  glasses  to  see  herself  in, 
and  couches  to  recline  upon,  and  silver  forks  to 
eat  with — who  knows  ?  Tell  her  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take  to  suppose  that  happiness  has  anything  to 
do  with  the  mind  or  the  heart ;  that  it  is  all  a 
thing  of  the  eyes.  Tell  her  its  foundations  are 
laid  up  in  brick  and  mortar,  and  its  superstructure 
is  comprised  of  all  the  costly  materials  that  can 


56  THE    WOULD-BE-GENTEEL    LADY.  • 

be  gathered  together  from  the  four  corners  of  the 
earth.  Go  now,  quick,  wife,  call  her  down  stairs, 
and  bid  her  look  at  your  best  parlor — your  bet- 
ter half — and  tell  her  you  expect  she  will  have  a 
whole  suit  of  such  apartments,  only  a  great  deal 
finer.  Say  to  her,  '  Look  at  it,  Caroline  ;  gaze 
on  it,  my  child,  and  forget  the  image  of  him  who, 
though  God's  noblest  work,  cannot  afford  to  man- 
ufacture happiness  for  you  out  of  cabinet-ware 
and  upholsterers'  stuffs.'  Go,  wife,  and  be  elo- 
quent." 

Having  thus  exploded^  he  left  the  house. 

Poor  Mrs.  Rutherford  had  never  heard  her 
husband  indulge  in  such  a  vein  before.  She  was 
kind  and  attentive  to  his  comfort,  and  his  dispo- 
sition led  him  to  make  the  most,  both  to  her  and 
to  himself,  of  whatever  in  her  was  good  and  com- 
mendable. She  did  not  suspect,  therefore,  that 
there  ever  lurked  in  his  bosom  a  feeling  of  con- 
tempt. It  was  a  wretched  day  for  the  whole 
family. 

In  the  evening,  after  Caroline  bade  good-night, 
the  subject  was  renewed.  Mr.  Rutherford  had 
thought  much  and  deeply  upon  it.  Had  Cleave- 
land  avowed  his  love,  he  might  go  to  him  at  once, 
and  tell  him  that  his  wife  repented  the  step  she 


•  THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  57 

had  taken — but  now,  what  was  to  be  done?  he 
could  not  tell. 

Matters  went  on  thus  for  about  three  months, 
durino-  which  Mrs.  Garrison  shared  in  the  solici- 
tude  which  Caroline's  parents  felt  on  her  account 
— although,  in  seeing  her  droop,  she  could  only 
guess  at  the  cause.  She  corresponded  with  Mr 
Cleaveland,  but  he  never  mentioned  Caroline— 
and  she  could  only  venture  upon  what  might 
seem  an  accidental  reference  to  her,  and  allusion 
to  her  poor  health  and  spirits.  At  the  end  o*" 
three  months  she  received  from  him  the  following 
letter : — 

My  dear  Mrs.  Garrison — Your  very  great 
kindness,  and  your  most  generous  sympathy  so 
constantly  manifested  towards  me,  induces  me  to 
lay  before  you  a  matter  that  very  nearly  concerns 
me,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  your  advice  in 
circumstances  of  great  delicacy  and  perplexity. 

I  think  it  could  not  have  altogether  escaped 
your  observation,  that,  as  would  probably  have 
befallen  most  other  young  men  in  like  circum- 
stances, I  lost  my  heart  to  your  fair  young  friend, 
my  pupil.  Nor  was  I  a  despairing  lover — may 
my  presumption  be  pardoned,  in  believing  that  I 


58  THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.   . 

'jccasionally  discovered  through  the  veil  of  her 
most  delicate  and  maidenly  reserve,  a  certain 
tremulousness  of  feeling  which  that  veil  could 
not  entirely  disguise — an  occasional  agitation  of 
manner  on  her  part,  from  which  I  derived  the 
flatteririg  conclusion  that  it  was  sometimes  given 
to  me  to  touch  "  the  electric  chain  with  which 
she's  darkly  bound." 

But  I  waited  until  one  relation  with  her  should 
be  at  an  end  before  attempting  to  establish  anoth- 
er; and  just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  declaring 
myself,  her  mother,  suspecting  my  intention, 
interfered  to  prevent  its  fulfilment — saying,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  remember,  that  such  an  union 
would  fall  far  below  her  wishes  and  hopes  for 
her  daughter. 

I  do  indeed  feel  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  such 
a  treasure  as  Caroline  Rutherford.  But  I  sup- 
pose  it  would  be  doing  Mrs.  Rutherford  no  injus- 
tice to  believe  that  my  most  striking  deficiency  in 
her  eyes,  would  be  made  up  at  once,  were  I  to 
come  into  possession  of  a  fortune. 

I  am  very  wretched — and  it  is  possible  that  I 
am  not  alone  in  my  wretchedness.  It  does  not 
eeem  fitting  that  the  destiny  of  two  human  beings 
capable  of  acting  and  choosing    for  themselves, 


.     THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY.  59 

t 

should  be  controlled  by  idiosyncrasies  of  a  third 
person.  It  does  not  seem  fitting  that  if  we  are 
capable  of  loving  and  making  each  other  happy, 
we  should  be  separated  by  such  a  paltry  wall  of 
partition.  I  have  a  strong  impression,  too,  thai 
Mr.  Rutherford  would  favor  my  suit.  And  yet, 
what  can  I  do  ?  How  am  I  to  break  the  fetters 
that  Mrs.  R.  has  thrown  around  me  ?  Give  me 
your  counsel,  I  pray  you,  and  add  one  more  to 
the  many  obligations  which  you  have  already 
heaped  upon 

Your  very  grateful  and  affectionate  friend, 

Charles  Cleaveland, 

Mrs.  Garrison  was  not  long  in  deciding  what 
to  do.  Her  great  kindness  to  Caroline,  and  the 
services  whioh  she  had  rendered  her,  entitled 
her  to  act  in  whatever  concerned  her  welfare. 
Having  provided  herself  with  a  store  of  arguments 
to  overcome  all  objections,  and  set  the  matter  in 
its  true  light,  she  determined  to  appeal  directly 
to  Mrs.  Rutherford  herself  To  her  surprise  and 
joy,  she  found  her  most  thankful  to  avail  herself 
of  the  opportunity  to  retract  her  injunction.  Her 
home  once  so  pleasant,  had  become  so  cheerless, 


60  THE  WOULD-BE-GENTEEL  LADY. 

and  her  husband  so  estranged — to  say  nothing  of 
Caroline — that  in  the  exigencies  of  the  present, 
she  forgot  all  her  visions  for  the  future. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Garrison  lost  no  time  in  com- 
municating the  result  to  her  friend  ;  and  Mrs. 
Rutherford  was  no  less  eager  to  inform  her  hus- 
band of  what  had  happened. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  he,  "  Caroline  shall  know 
of  this  at  once.  She  must  have  it  explained  to 
her  sooner  or  later — why  Cleaveland  went  off  in 
so  strange  a  manner ;  better  hear  it  from  me  than 
from  her  lover ;  it  will  be  awkward  for  him  to 
tell  it ;  and,  besides,  she  has  suffered  enough  al- 
ready ;  and  now,  when  better  things  are  in  store 
for  her,  the  sooner  she  enters  into  the  enjoyment 
of  them  the  better.  *  *  *  *  Before  Caroline 
slept  that  night,  there  was,  for  her,  balm,  and  a 
physician — and  her  sorrows  were  all  healed. 

The  next  week  the  lovers  met  without  explana- 
tion,— save  the  tears  of  Caroline,  and  the  trem- 
bling lips  and  hand  of  Charles.  They  met,  as 
if  they  had  parted  acknowledged  lovers,  and 
been,  since  that  time,  cut  off  from  each  other  by 
some  sore  calamity.  From  their  dark  hour  broke 
forth  a  rosy  dawn  which  in  time  was  kindled  to 


THE    WOULD-BI  uENTEEL    LADY.  61 

perfect  day.  The  bloom  soon  gathered  again  on 
Caroline's  cheek,  and  her  eye  was  once  more 
soul-lit. 

Charles  was  not  long  in  obtaining  a  respectable 
settlement  Caroline  was  henceforth  permitted  to 
manage  her  own  affairs ;  to  make  her  outfit  such 
as  became  a  country  clergyman's  wife,  with  every 
provision  for  comfort  and  none  for  display  ;  and  to 
have  a  perfectly  unostentatious  wedding,  without 
a  supper — without  even  champagne. 

She  lived  to  realize  her  father's  beau-ideal  of 
a  woman's  happiness — to  be  the  "  all-in-all  of 
plea.sure"  to  a  man  in  every  way  worthy  of  her. 

6 


f»9 


AT  HOME. 


BY  MRS.  ANNA  BACHE. 

"  Her  storied  lore  she  next  applies, 
Taxing  her  mind  to  aid  her  eyes." 

BRIDAL  OF  TRIERMADT. 

Thou  lookest  wearily,  my  love,  but  now  the  toil 

some  day 
Is  over,  and  the  quiet  eve  its  labors  shall  repay. 
Come,  I  will  pull   the  sofa  round,  and  pile  the 

cushions  higher. 
And  Gheber-like,  thou  shalt  adore  this  comfort- 
beaming  fire. 
How  shall  I  pet  thee,  weary  one  ? — I  love  to  tend 

on  thee ; 
Shall  I  sit  here,  and  let  thee  rest  thy  head  upon 

my  knee  ? 
1  will  not  light  the  tapers  yet — I  like  this  pleasant 

gloom, 
With  the  red  blaze  at  intervals  illumining  the 

room, 


AT   HOME.  63 

Reflected  in  thy  sparkling  eye,  and  gleaming  on 

thy  bi*o\v  : 
My  prized,  my  own,  my  only  one,   how  lovely 

look'st  thou  now  ^ 
What  happiness  to  gaze  on  thee !  after  the  bitter 

years 
Ot    absence    and    uncertainty,    of    solitude   and 

t€ars. 
Rememberest  thou  those  dear,  dear  nights,  so  very 

long  ago. 
When  love  was  younger,  (not  more  true,)  those 

nights  of  frost  and  snow, 
When  thou  didst  make,  through  storm  and  shower, 

thy  pilgrimage  to  me  ? 
Rememberest  thou  the  forest  walks,  and  the  large 

willow  tree. 
And  the  white  wild-flowers  ?     I  should  like  that 

dear  old  place  to  see. 
What  say'st  thou,  love  ? — a  story,  such  as  I  told 

thee  then. 
What  shall  it  be  ? — thou  dost  not  want  the  old 

ones  o'er  again. 
I've  told  thee  all  the  tales      know,  of  witch  and 

fairy  lore, 
Though,  since  we  parted,  1  have  read  at  least  a 

thousand  more. 


64  AT    HOME. 

Yet  thoughts  of  thee,  my  absent  one,  so  occupied 

my  brain, 
Few  traces  of  their  incidents  in  memory  remain. 
Shall  I  tell  of  Lady  Eva  and  the  brave  Sir  Agil- 

thorn. 
The  Brother  Knights  of  Lombardy,  the  Fate  of 

Adelmorn, 
The  Legend  of  Sir  Lancelot,  the   Fairy  of  the 

Well, 
Sir  Ethelberg  of  Brittany,  the  Quest  of  Jorindell  ? 
Oh  !  glorious  days  of  chivalry,  what  can  with 

them  compare  ? — 
When  all  the  cavaliers  were  brave,  and  all  the 

ladies  fair; 
When  hero-hands  won  tender  hearts,  and  deeds 

of  bold  emprize 
Were   paid  with  lays  from  minstrels'  lutes  and 

looks  from  ladies'  eyes. 
Aye !  love  was  worth  the  having  then,  and  worth 

the  giving  too, 
When  knightly  honor  deem.'d  it  shame  to  proffer 

vows  untrue. 
And  nought  but  nature's  nobleness  could  beauty's 

pride  subdue. 
Alas !  the  "  march  of  intellect"  has  crush'd  these 

fairy  bowers, 


AT    HOME.  65 

Our  heroes  dress  in  good  broadcloth,  and  court- 

ship's  years  are  hours. 
Yet  still  from  Love's  celestial  fount  some  honeyed 

waters  fall, 
Else  were  the  cup  of  earthly  life  but  an  unmin- 

gled  gall. 
And  if  thou  'It  listen  to  a  tale  of  modern  love  and 

wo, 
1  '11  tell  thee  a.  true  story,  dear,  that  chanc'd  not 

long  ago. 


The  ship  had  quitted  the  glittering  bay, 
And  graceful  sped  on  her  ocean  way. 
Stern  eyes  grew  sad,  as  their  native  land 
Sunk  from  the  view  of  the  convict  band. 
O'er  tree  and  tower,  and  fortress  wall, 
O'er  slender  spire  and  steeple  tall. 
Distance  drew  her  veil  of  haze ; 
One,  one  lingering  tear-fraught  gaze. 
Earnest  dwelt  on  the  fading  shore, 
That  fled  from  those  eyes  for  evermore. 
There  was  one  cry,  as  if  long-pent  grief 
Mastered  resolve,  and  sought  relief. 
One  indrawn  gasp  of  the  struggling  breath- 
And  the  lip  that  drew  it  seemed  still'd  in  death. 
E  6* 


66  AT    HOME. 

They  rais'd  from  the  deck  that  senseless  fonn, 

And  even  those  crinne-chill'd  hearts  grew  warro 

With  pity.     They  put  back  her  raven  hair, 

Bar'd  her  white  neck  to  the  cool  sea  air, 

And  dash'd  the  spra}'-  on  her  forehead  fair ; 

Till  slowly  unclos'd  her  languid  eyes, 

And  Death  relinqui^h'd  his  half-won  prize. 
******* 

"  So  young,  so  lovely,  are  thine  a  face 
And  form  for  the  brand  of  black  disgrace  ? 
So  innocent  seeming — can  it  be  true 
Thou  art  justly  one  of  yon  loathsome  crew, 
Whose  savage  ire,  and  more  savage  glee, 
Mingle  guilt,  doom,  and  misery  ?" 

"  Oh  !  asK  me,  ask  me  not  to  speak 

Of  why  I  bear  this  felon  thrall ; 
My  senses  reel,  my  heart  grows  weak, 
The  stain  of  shame  is  on  my  cheek, — 

Yet  would  I  not  the  past  recall. 
I  thank  thee  for  thy  pitying  care, 
But  must  my  lot  unaided  bear. 
Enough,  I  unreluctant  go 
To  banishment,  disgrace,  and  wo." 

"  Thy  words  are  wild — I  would  not  press 


AT    HOME.  67 

Intrusive  on  thy  heart's  distress ; 
Nor  do  I  seek  thy  griefs  to  know, 
But  in  the  hope  to  balm  thy  wo, 
And  point  thee  to  that  Mercy-seat, 
Where  penitence  and  pardon  meet. 
Heaven  comfort  thee,  poor  girl !" 

"  And  may 

That  Heaven  thy  words  with  blessings  pay  1 

Stranger,  all  guilty  as  I  seem, 

Do  not  too  harshly  of  me  deem. 

'T  is  long  since  pitying  word  or  look 

To  me  were  given — scorn  I  could  brook  ; 

But  sympathy's  sweet  accents  rest 

Like  sunbeams  on  my  frozen  breast." 

Her  bosom  swell 'd  with  choking  sighs, 

Her  small  hands  hid  her  streaming  eyes. 

Those  lily  hands,  of  fairy  mould, 

No  tale  of  menial  usage  told  ; 

That  slender  youthful  shape,  though  clad 

In  homely  weeds,  rare  graces  had ; 

And  when  stern  effort  had  suppress'd 

The  grief  that  shook  her  throbbing  breast, 

Apart  the  veiling  curls  she  flung. 

That  o'er  her  face  dishevelled  hung. 

Though  tear-strain'dj  pale,  and  worn  with  care, 


63  AT   HOME. 

Surpassing  loveliness  was  there  ; 
And  when  she  met  the  earnest  eye 
Of  kind,  yet  dubious  scrutiny, 
O^er  her  chill  paleness,  rushing  came 
From  breast  to  brow  the  crimson  shame. 

— "  My  father  bears  a  noble  name, 

My  birth-place  was  a  lordly  hall ; 
In  that  proud  hall  an  orphan  dwelt, 
'T  is  no  new  tale — when  young  hearts  melt 
And  mingle,  weak  is  Reason's  thrall, 
Fear's  whisper,  Duty's  thunder-call, 
Alike  unheard,  unheeded  all. 
Oh !  lov'd,  though  unrelenting  sire, 
Thou  dost  forget,  in  thy  stern  ire 
Against  the  daughter  once  so  dear. 
Thyself  didst  bring  temptation  near. 

I  was  a  bride,  a  happy  bride. 
My  gentle  Malcolm's  joy  and  pride. 
Though  poverty  was  in  our  cot. 
Love  dwelt  there,  and  we  fear'd  her  not. 
But  sickness  came — our  daily  toil 
Alone  had  fed  life's  lamp  with  oil. 
O'er  my  poor  Malcolm's  feverish  bed 
^  watch'd  all  night,  then  sleepless  sped 


i 


AT    HOME.  69 

To  labor  for  our  wants.     Oh  !  why- 
Did  Heaven  forbid  us  both  to  die  ? 
The  sleepless  night,  the  scant  repast, 
The  toilsome  day — this  could  not  last ; 
Unknown,  unoar'd  for,  by  his  side 
Sickening  I  lay,  and  Malcolm  tried, 
While  yet  pale  cheek  and  tottering  limb 
Told  how  disease  had  prey'd  on  him, 

His  hireling  task  to  ply. 
Alas !  the  eager  will  in  vain 
Struggled  with  lassitude  and  pain ; 
Desperate,  he  sought  his  home  again 

To  see  hi.«  Marian  die. 

From  fearful  dreams  1  frenzied  woke  ; 
As  famish'd  nature  crav'd,  I  spoke. 
Unconscious  of  his  soothings  meek. 
Of  the  hot  tears  that  bath'd  my  cheek, 
I  pray'd  for  food.    He  could  not  bear 
The  wo  of  that  delirious  prayer ; 
He  went,  return'd — with  gold  he  came— 
But  branded  with  a  robber's  name. 

They  tore  him  from  my  wild  embrace, 
They  dragg'd  him  to  a  prison  cell ; 
1  sought  him  in  that  fearful  place, 


70  AT   HOME. 

I  gaz'd  once  more  upon  his  face, 
Exchang'd  one  sad  farewell — 
And  then,  a  crime-stain'd  exile,  he 
Was  sent  to  dwell  beyond  the  sea. 

Then,  then,  I  was  indeed  alone — 

Sense,  duty,  reason,  all  were  gone, 

Life  was  one  racking  sense  of  pain, 

One  only  thought  dwelt  in  my  brain, 

To  see  my  victim-love  again. 

To  soothe  his  grief,  support  his  care. 

His  shame,  his  punishment,  to  share. 

But  how,  from  whom  assistance  claim  ? 

Banish'd,  disown'd — my  very  name 

Forbidden  to  my  father's  ear, 

Would  he  my  plaint  or  purpose  hear  ? 

Friendless  and  poor — one  desperate  thought 

Amid  my  wilder'd  musings  wrought. 

If  mine  the  crime,  the  sentence  too, 

Whisper'd  the  demon.     Oh!  how  few 

Of  those  who  bask  in  fortune's  glare, 

Can  fancy  poverty's  despair ! 

On  splendor's  gilded  couch  reclin'd, 

With  luxury-sated  frame  and  mind, 

They  talk  of  lalor  and  content, 

And  o'er  the  snares  of  wealth  lament. 


i 


AT    HOME.  71 

Oh  !  could  they  for  brief  time  endure 

The  legion  temptings  of  the  poor, 

Their  fiery  trial  once  gone  o'er, 

They'd  mourn  the  snares  of  wealth  no  more. 

• — I  spurn'd  the  sinful  thought  away, 
I  wept,  I  knelt,  I  strove  to  pray ; 
But  Heaven  is  deaf  to  rebel  prayer, 
And  mine  sent  no  submission  there. 
Day  after  day  crept  torturing  by, 
And  brought  no  hope,  no  comfort  nigh. 
Should  I  the  penance  seek  to  shun,    . 
For  whom  the  guilty  deed  was  done  ? — 
The  urging  fiend  was  at  mine  ear, 
Maddening  with  sorrow,  love,  and  fear, 
'Twas  done,  detected — T  am  here." 

*  «  i|c  4:  *  ♦ 

Her  haven  the  stately  ship  has  won-, 
The  convict  crew  to  their  toils  have  gone. 
There's  a  grove  of  palms  in  that  southern  isle, 
Through  their  coronaled  tops  the  moonbeams 

smile 
On  a  fairy  hut,  where  vine-boughs  throw 
Their  cluster'd  wealth  o'er  the  lattice  low, 
And  dim  the  silvery  rays  that  pour 
Their  brightness  aslant  the  humble  floor. 


72  AT   HOME. 

Hark  ! — the  accents  of  weeping  prayer 

Upon  the  vesper  stillness  glide  ; 
The  voices  are  yonder  hut  within, 
They  plead  for  pardon,  and  naourn  for  sin- 
There  Marian  kneels  at  Malcolm's  side. 


Now   for   the    moral   of  my  tale. — Although  of 

heavenly  birth, 
Love  sometimes  deigns  to  fold  his  wings,  and  find 

a  home  on  earth. 
He  strengthens  woman's  hand  to  deeds  that  make 

the  warrior  quail, 
He  raises  woman's   mind  to  thoughts  that  turn 

stout  manhood  pale ; 
The  feeble  frame,  the  fearful  heart,  for  him  grow 

strong,  to  brave 
The  tempest  or  the   battle-field,  the  desert  or  the 

grave ; 
He  led  poor  Malcolm's  faithful  bride  across  the 

stormy  sea : 
So  loves  fond  woman's  martyr-heart — so,  dearest, 

love  I  thee, 

The  above  poem  is  founded  on  an  anecdote  which  appear- 
ed some  yeare  ago  in  an  English  gazette. 


7:i 


TO  THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL. 


I. 


Bird  of  the  lone  and  joyless  night, 
Whence  is  thy  sad  and  solemn  lay  ? 

Attendant  on  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Why  shun  the  garish  blaze  of  day  ? 


II. 


When  darkness  fills  the  dewy  air, 
Nor  sounds  the  song  of  happier  bird, 

Alone  amid  the  silence  there 

Thy  wild  and  plaintive  note  is  heard. 


ill. 


Thyself  unseen,  thy  pensive  moan 
Poured  in  no  loving  comrade's  ear ; 

The  forest's  shaded  depths  alone 
That  mournful  melody  can  hear. 

7 


74  TO    THE    Willi -POOR-WILL. 

IV. 

Beside  what  sti'.i  and  secret  spring, 
In  what  dark  wood,  the  livelong  day, 

Sitt'sl  thou  with  dusk  and  folded  wing, 
To  while  the  hours  of  light  away. 

V. 

Sad  minstrel !  thou  hast  learned  like  me, 
That  life's  deceitful  gleam  is  vain ; 

And  well  the  lesson  profits  thee. 

Who  will  not  trust  its  charms  again ! 


VI. 


Thou,  unbeguiled,  thy  plaint  dost  trill, 
To  listening  night  when  mirth  is  o'er : 

I,  heedless  of  the  warning  still, 
Believe,  to  be  deceived  once  more  ! 

E.  F.  K. 


)  J  J 

'  >  J 


>  >  J  > 
J  »  7  J 

^  >  »  > 


:  (  I  ( 


:  n  c  c 


c   c  f 
r  c  c 


75 

THE  CHILD^S  BEST  FRIEND. 

Nay,  start  not  so,  nor  turn  thy  head  away, 
Fair  infant,  from  thy  comrade's  boisterous  play; 
Thy  fond  and  faithful  friend  !  thy  guard  by  night . 
Thy  toy  by  day  !  thy  playmate  and  delight ! 
Oh  !   may'st  thou  never — through  the  changeful 

years 
Which  pass  thou  must  in  this  dark  vale  of  tears — 
Oh !  may'st  thou  never  find  a  friend  less  true, 
Whose  love  nor  time  nor  distance  may  subdue— 
Nor  cruelty  estrange,  nor  falsehood  shake  ! 
Who,  treat  him  as  thou  may'st,  for  thy  dear  sake 
Fearless  will  leap  where  swiftest  currents  flow- 
Fearless  will  strive  against  the  fiercest  foe  ! 
Will  bear  all  worst  extremes  of  earthly  ill, 
Famine,  and  weariness,  and  wintry  chill ! 
Who,  though  thine  all,  on  this  side  heaven,  were 

lost — 
Thy  friends  proved  false,  thy  fortunes  ocean-tost — 
Thy  nearest  kinsmen  coldly  turned  aside — 
Would  love  thy  want,  even  as  he  loved  thy  pride — 
Would  lick  thy  hand,  though  it  had  nought  to  give. 
Nor  leave  thy  poverty  with  kin'gs  to  live !  Q. 


76 


NAPOLEON,  AND  THE  IRON  CROWN. 

BY    GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 

He  sat  with  haughty  men  about  his  throne, 
Himself  the  greatest  king.     The  monarchy 
That  he  held  o'er  the  nations  was  his  own. 
It  spoke  in  that  broad  brow  and  cloudless  eye- 
It  was  the  monarchy  of  soul,  that  beamed 
From  every  chiseled  feature — till  command, 
With  a  strange  power  upon  the  spirit,  seemed 
To  speak  as  with  a  voice  from  loftier  land ; 
And  each  who  heard  it,  tho'  he  wore  a  crown, 
To  that  great  mien  and  tone  of  royalty  bent  down  ! 

It  was  a  golden  crown — its  iron  band 
The  brows  had  girdled  of  a  race  of  kings ; 
He  bore  it  to  his  own  with  his  white  hand, 
As  some  ringed  bauble  of  those  weary  things 
Great  hearts  despise — e'en  when  they  spell  the 

world 
With  their  poor  lustre.     As  he  lifted  it, 
His  pallid  lip  with  pride  imperial  curled, 


NAPOLEON,    AND   THE    IKON    CROWN.  77 

And  his  large  shadowy  eye  with  fierceness  lit— 
''  God  gave  it  me.     Beware  who  touches^^  fell 
On  the  helmed  ears  around  him,  like  a  signal  bell ! 

It  had  been  lifted  to  the  warrior  head 
Of  the  whole  line  of  Lombardy  ;  and  now 
It  towered  above  the  marbles  of  the  dead 
Upon  the  unchanging  paleness  of  a  brow 
That  frowned  on  worlds  in  mastery.     It  shone 
With  sapphire  and  with  emerald  without, 
In  bravery  of  its  radiance  alone : 
Within  that  iron  band  went  dark  about, 
Untouched  by  grayling  Time  ;  tho'' centuries 
Had  fled  ere  yet  that  crown  gleamed  o'er  Napo- 
leon's eyes. 

And  how  tradition  gathered  as  you  gazed ! 
What  relic  of  such  holiness  has  man 
Beheld,  with  spirit  silenced  and  amazed, 
Since  awful  story  of  the  past  began  ! 
It  was  the  "  Iron  Crown"  that  from  the  nail 
Of  the  red  Cross  on  Calvary,  for  kings 
Was  fashioned  thus  !     And  as  we  read  the  tale 
E'en  now,  some  memory  like  an  echo  rings 
Thro'  the  astonished  heart,  until  we  feel 
A  reverence  with  the  mystery  about  us  steal ' 

7* 


78  NAPOLEON,    AND    THE    IKUN    CROWN. 

Crown  of  the  Crucifixion  !     O  that  He, 
On  whose  aspiring  brow  it  sat,  had  felt 
And  fought  the  spirits  of  his  Destiny  ! 
Then  had  a  palsied  world  beheld  him  melt 
In  tears  for  mortals,  where  he  strode  in  blood, 
And  shrieked  for  conquest.     Then  his  loftier 

path 
Had  been  above  the  dashing  of  that  flood 
That  broke  about  the  highway  of  his  wrath, 
And  Glory,  like  an  angel,  beckoned  on 
To  summits  nobler  than  the  proudest  that  he  won ' 

O,  had  he  felt  that  that  which  then  did  bind 
His  beating  temples  with  its  iron  band, 
Might  once,  indeed,  of  that  Immortal  Mind, 
That  gladdened  Earth,  have  pierced  the  symbol 

hand  ; 
Had  vision  wafted  him  to  those  dim  years. 
When  Christ  was  bowingr  to  the  Agonv, 
And  pouring  upon  Man  his  farewell  tears, 
Ere  His  triumphal  parting  for  the  sky — 
What  then  had  been  the  story  of  thine  eye. 
Than  tongues  more  eloquent,  O  "  Child  of  Destiny !" 

Then,  when  the  trumpet  brattled  with  his  name, 
In  the  mad  morning  of  his  opening  days. 


NAPOLEON,    AND    THE    IRON    CROWN.  •  79 

And  his  best  music  was  the  voice  of  Fame, 
Merging  each  accent  of  a  lowlier  praise — 
How  changed  along  the  ice-path  of  that  land, 
The  mountain-barrier  of  an  empire,  then, 
Had  that  stern  spirit  strode — the  loud  command 
Sunk  to  that  suasion  that  makes  captive  men, 
By  its  great  moral  harmony,  and  pours 
New  light  from  that  far  fount  it  draws  from,  and 
adores ! 

Then — ere  the  earthquake  summons  of  red  War 
Had  lured  him  to  that  passion-field,  where  Man, 

*  Wild  as  the  wild  things,  oft,  he  battles  for, 
Ended  in  blackness  wnat  in  blood  began — 
Forth,   with  his    pilgrim-stafF,    and    booK,  and 

prayer, 
From  citadel  to  wilderness,  his  way 
Had  lain  through  paths  of  Solitude  and  Care. 
The  forest  midnight  and  the  glare  of  day — 
Proclaiming  to  the  world,  with  prophet  tongue, 

The  Heaven-commissioned    histories  that    round 
him  runs: ! 


o 


Then  had  he  crushed  the  Conq'ror  to  the  dust- 
And  trod  the  dabbled  sword  beneath  his  feet- 
Cast  the  crown  downward  as  a  thing  accurst, 
And  fled  as  pestilence  the  monarch's  seat ! 


80        •     NAPOLEON,    AND   THE    IRON    CROWN. 

Then  had  the  gilded  holm  and  warrior  steed 
Been  banished,  as  the  necromance  of  dreams 
The  sceptre  spurned  as  some  unweVcome  reed, 
Nor  clutched  as  the  gemmed  wonder  that  it 

seems ! 
Then  had  the  world  seen  rest — and  with  its 

years 
Virtue  and  Light  had  come,  whose  coming  asked 

no  tears ! 

Then  had  that  mighty  creature,  that  no  prayer 
Could  stay  upon  his  mountain-march  to  win 
All  that  he  dreamt  of — for  no  mercy  there 
Would  breathe  her  whisper  mid  the  tramp  and 

din 
Of  shaking  armies — with  a  reverence,  then, 
Had  he  looked  up  to  God,  and  asked  of  Heaven 
What  in  his  broad  companionship  with  Men, 
Of  loftier  Duty  with  his  Power  was  given — 
What,  with  a  mind  so  pregnant  of  the  skies, 
A.11    Earth    might   look    for    from    its    hallow'd 
energies ! 


61 


THE  BARLOW  KNIFE. 

BY  ROBERT  JONATHAN. 

There  was  one  event  of  my  boyish  days  which 
is  the  cause  of  such  amusing  reminiscence  in  my 
later  years,  that  I  cannot  refrain,  dear  reader,  from 
making  you  acquainted  with  it.  It  happened  upon 
a  time,  after  I  had  worn  out  my  first  frock  coat, 
and  got  tired  of  trundling  hoops  and  wagons,  and 
drawing  sleds,  that  I  felt,  as  many  boys  do,  an 
inordinate  desire  to  experience  the  comforts  of 
whiiiJmg  ;  but  I  had  no  knife — always  excepting 
an  old  case-knife  which  mother  used  to  lend  me. 
But  then,  this  was  not  the  thing ;  for,  besides 
being  inconvenient,  I  could  not  shut  it  up,  and  put 
it  in  my  pocket,  and  walk  about  with  the  proud 
consciousness  that  it  was  my  own — not  borrowed 
from  any  one,  but  mine — sacred  to  ?ny  individual 
use  and  Ijehoof.  However,  believing  that  my 
youthful  happiness  depended  upon  the  gratifica- 
tion of  this  desire,  I  treated  with  mother  to  nego- 
tiate with  father  upon  the  subject  of  procuring  me 

F 


82  THE    B^KLOW  KNIFE. 

a  knife.  This  was  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  in 
the  month  of  July.  Mother  told  mc  that,  if  I 
would  be  a  good  boy,  and  keep  that  night  and  the 
next  day  (Sunday)  as  I  ought,  and  go  to  school 
every  day,  and  study  hard,  and  mind  the  ichool. 
mistress,  and  divers  other  conditions — to  all  of 
which  I  eagerly  consented  without  considering 
the  possibility  of  fulfilling  them — on  these  condi- 
tions, I  say,  she,  on  her  part,  promised  to  ask 
father  to  give  me  a  knife.  Accordingly,  in  pur- 
suance of  our  stipulations,  I  kept  Saturday  night 
very  well — went  to  bed  early — went  to  sleep, 
and  straiffhtwav  to  dreamino-  of  the  glorious  frui 
tion  of  all  my  hopes.  I  dreamed  that  I  had  a 
new  knife — that  I  ^'- sharpened  it  up  ^^  until  it  would 
cut  a  hair — that  I  had  a  soft  piece  of  seasoned 
white  pine — that,  in  fact,  I  was  ivhittlingf  And 
how  inexpressible  was  the  delight  which  I  expe- 
rienceu  !  Surely  moral  philosophers  should  give 
mankind — at  least  the  hoy  part  of  it — credit  for  a 
new  and  additional  sense,  which  they  should  term 
Whittleaiion,  and  upon  which  they  should  base 
a  new  science  and  denominate  it  Whittleology . 
For  what  natural  sensation  is  there  which  can  be 
compared  with  that  which  is  experienced  while 
drawing   the  keen-edged  blade  through  the  deli- 


THE  BARLOW  KWlFE.  83 

cate   fibres   of  some    soft,    well-seasoned   wood  ? 
So  far  as  my  boyish  experience  extends,  there  is 
no  enjoyment  so  deep,  so  soothing,  and  so  satis- 
factory  as  that  derived  from  wUttUng ;  whether 
i,t  be  upon  a  shingle  or  a  school-bench — upon  the 
•?4quire's  picket-fence  or  the  village  sign-post.     But 
to    my  dream.     All  things  went  on  charmingly 
until  an  unfortunate  turn  of  my  shingle  brought 
my  knife-blade  in  contact  with  one  of  my  fingers, 
and  the  pain  of  the  wound  thus  inflicted,  dispelled 
the  delightful  vision  which   had    enthralled    me. 
And  so  impatient  was  I  to  have  Monday  morning 
come  round,  that  I  could  sleep  no  more  that  night, 
and,  although  it  was  but  an  hour  before  daybreak, 
still  it  appeared  to  me   that  weeks  were  crowded 
into  that  short  period,  while  I  was  waiting  and 
watching  for  the   blessed  dawn  of  the  Sabbath. 
Finally,  daylight  appeared  ;  and  with  its  earliest 
dawn  I  arose  and  began  to  whistle  "  Heigh  Betty 
Martin,"  in  great  glee  ;  but  on  recollection  of  my 
treaty  with  mother,  I  ceased  whistling  and  walked 
down  into  the  sitting-room  with  all  the  assumed 
gravity  of  a  Friar  Tuck,  and  with  a  face  long  as 
a  grape-vine,  and  sombre  as  a  dying  cypress.     I 
attended  church  all  day,  and  did   lot  take  my  eyes 
off  the  minister,  except  during  prayers ;  but  sat 


84  THE  BARLOW  KNIFK. 

up  in  the  pew  straight  as  a  new  pin,  the  big  drops, 
(not  tear  drops,  however,)  following  each  other 
down  my  cheeks  and  neck  at  stated  intervals, 
much  as  though  a  frozen  squash  was  thawing  on 
my  head.  After  returning  from  church  I  took 
up  my  catechism,  and  when  I  thought  mother's 
eyes  were  on  me,  my  own  were  on  the  book ; 
but  when  she  was  out  of  the  room  I  amused  my 
little  brother  Dick,  by  telling  him  in  a  whisper 
sufficiently  loud  to  be  heard  over  all  the  room, 
that 

"  In  Adam's  fall 

We  made  stone-wall. 

But  ever  sense 

We've  made  brush-fence." 
And 

"  By  Washington 

Great  deeds  were  done 

When  he  did  run 

With  his  big  gun 

'Gainst  the  Hes^Awn,"  etc.  etc. 

But  as  mother  did  not  hear  me,  my  youthful  con- 
science was  perfectly  at  ease — considering,  of 
course,  that  there  was  no  wrong  done  when  there 
was  no  knowledge,  on  her  part,  of  any  trans- 
gression. 


THE    BARDW    KNIFE.  85 

At  length,  after  many  weary  hours,  sun-down 
was  proclaimed  through  the  house  by  my  little 
sister  Mary,  who  had  been  watching  its  approach, 
for  an  hour  or  more,  from  one  of  the  garret  win- 
dows. I  then  made  noise  enough  to  remunerate 
me  for  keeping  half  a  score  of  Sabbaths.  I 
mounted  my  Eclipse  broomstick  with  a  deter- 
mination to  run  him  on  the  course  for  the  last 
time,  previous  to  giving  up  the  pleasures  of  the 
chase  for  the  quiet  comforts  of  whittling.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  the  last  time ;  for,  in  the  last 
quarter  of  the  third  heat,  in  the  exuberance  of 
my  spirits  I  reared  up,  and,  my  foot  slipping,  I 
came  with  such  force  on  to  my  wayworn  charger 
that  I  broke  him  down,  and  into  two  pieces  be- 
sides ;  and,  in  addition,  I  got  a  severe  thump  on 
my  cranium,  which  sent  me  weeping  to  bed, 
where  I  slept  quietly  until  Monday  morning.  On 
that  morning  I  was,  of  course,  in  very  good  spirits, 
and  did  not  fail  to  give  mother  a  gentle  hint  touch- 
ing her  part  of  the  contract,  by  taking  particular 
pains  to  have  her  accidentally  discover  that  the 
handle  to  the  clothes-pounder  had  come  out,  and 
by  carelessly  observing,  in  a  very  emphatic  man- 
ner,  that  if  I  had  a  penknife,  I  would  maiie  a 
wedge   and   fasten   in    the  pounder   handle,  etc. 

8 


86  THE    BARLOW    KNIFE. 

However,  that  Jay  and  the  following  night  were 
doomed  to  be  hours  of  anxious  suspense  to  me — 
hope  and  fear  holding  alternate  sway  in  my  ex- 
cited breast.  But  words  have  not  power  to  ex- 
press the  fulness  of  my  joy  when,  after  breakfast 
on  Tuesday  morning,  father  called  me  to  him, 
and,  taking  a  new  knife  from  his  pocket,  placed 
me  on  his  knee,  after  which  he  gave  me  several 
sections  of  good  advice  and  kind  admonitions,  to 
which  I  listened  with  all  the  attention  bestowed 
by  a  barn  upon  a  whirlwind,  so  deeply  was  I 
engaged  in  scrutinizing  the  new  object  of  my 
desire. 

When  father  had  finished  his  lecture,  it  was 
school-time ;  so,  after  greasing  the  spring  of  my 
new  knife,  grasping  it  firmly  in  my  right  hand, 
and  thrusting  said  hand  into  my  pantaloons  pocket, 
I  started  for  school,  anticipating  a  "  glorious  tri- 
umph "  in  exhibiting  my  newly-acquired  property 
to  my  less  fortunate  playmates.  But,  just  as  I 
stepped  on  to  the  school-house  green,  the  school- 
mistress rattled  the  window  and  called  the  children 
in  ;  and  thus  my  thrilling  hopes  were  prematurely 
blighted.  Still  firmly  holding  my  knife  in  my 
pocket  as  I  entered  the  school-house,  I  took  my 
seat  on  the  "  hig  bench  "  where  I  usually  sat,  ana 


THB    BARLOW    KNIFE.  8f 

after  the  school  operations  had  fairly  commenced, 
I  turned  round  to  the  desk  with  my  back  to  the 
mistress  and  my  book  before  me.  I  then  took 
out  my  new  knife  for  the  purpose  of  examining  it 
more  particularly  than  I  had  hitherto  done.  It 
was  of  that  kind  commonly  called  Barlow  knives, 
one  half  of  the  handle  being  of  polished  iron  and 
the  other  half  of  bone  ;  the  blade  about  four  inches 
long,  half  an  inch  wide  near  the  handle,  and 
tapering  to  a  point.  Bill  Williams,  who  sat  next 
to  me,  soon  got  a  glimpse  at  it,  and  we  soon  got 
whispering  about  it ;  and  the  consequence  was,  we 
both  got  shut  up  in  the  dungeon,  and  were  kept 
there  until  noon.  Great  was  my  joy  during  the 
noon-spell  in  exhibiting  my  new  treasure ;  and 
many  were  the  congratulations  which  I  received 
upon  the  pleasure  of  possessing  it.  In  the  after- 
noon, not  profiting  at  all  by  my  morning's  expe- 
rience, I  took  it  out  in  school-time  and  tried  its 
shaving  powers  by  cutting  the  bench  ;  which  the 
school-mistress  happening  to  discover,  she  took  it 
away  from  me,  gave  me  a  feruling,  kept  me 
half  an  hour  after  school  was  out ;  then,  after 
giving  me  a  long  lecture,  and  at  the  end  of  it  my 
knife,  she  sent  me  home.  There  I  had  a  fine 
opportunity  to  indulge  my  whittling  propensities 


88  THE    BARLOW    KNIFE. 

during  the  whole  evening ;  but  finding  my  knife 
rather  dull,  I  stole  into  tiie  dining-room  and  stole 
out  of  a  drawer  in  the  sideboard  my  father's  razor- 
hone,  which  I  took  out  under  the  wood-house  and 
there  gave  my  knife  a  grand  rubbing.  Unfortu- 
nately for  me,  however,  the  more  I  sharpened  it  the 
duller  it  grew,  and  the  more  it  spoiled  my  father's 
hone ;  for,  on  bringing  this  latter  to  the  light, 
T  found  it  was  a  good  deal  worn  and  very  much 
scratched.  Here  was  a  new  difficulty ;  a  good 
scolding,  and  perhaps  a  "  dressing,''^  .for  spoiling 
a  nice  razor-hone.  However,  I  put  it  slyly  back 
into  the  drawer  and  determined  to  say  nothing  about 
it,  knowing  that  father  would  discover  it  the  next 
time  he  shaved  himself;  at  which  time  I  should 
endeavor — accidentally,  of  course — to  be  absent. 
I  next  tried  to  sharpen  my  knife  upon  a  scythe- 
stone  ;  but,  as  Dan  O'Rourke  would  say,  "  the 
more  I  tried  to  give  it  an  edge,  the  more  it  would 
*not  take  one,'"  until,  finally,  from  desperate 
necessity,  I  came  to  the  grievous  conclusion  that 
my  knife  was  good  for  nothing.  Consequent  upon 
this  conclusion,  was  a  determination  to  get  rid  of 
it  as  soon  as  possible.  But,  alas !  here  was  only 
the  beginning  of  my  sorrows,  as  the  sequel  will 
show. 


THE    BARLOW    KNIFK.  89 

My  first  attempt  was  to  sicop  it  away ;   but  as 
none  of  the  boys  had  such  a  knife  as  I  wanted, 
this  could  not  be  done.    I  next  called  my  younger 
brother  Dick  to  me,  and  asked  him  if  he  did  not 
want  a  present  ?     He,  of  course,  answered  in  the 
affirmative.     Thereupon,  after  showing  him  my 
knife,  how  well  it  was  sharpened  up,  etc.,  and 
making  him  promise  to  carry  my  books  to  and 
from  the  school-house  during  the   remainder  of 
the  summer,  I  made  him  a  present  of  the  knife. 
He  was  exceedingly  delighted  with  this  acquisi- 
tion to  his  personal  property,  and  immediately  ran 
into  the  yard   to   find   something  to  whittle.     I 
looked  through  the  window  to  watch  his  success. 
He  first  picked  up  a  decayed  mullen  stalk,  and 
attempted  to  cut  off  the  end  ;  but,  instead  of  cut- 
ting it  off,  the  pressure  of  his  knife  broke  it  off 
close  by  his  hand.     He  next  picked  up  the  end 
of  an  ox-goad,  and  tugged  away  at  it,  turning  his 
head  sidewise,  and  twisting  his  tongue  and  mouth 
into  all  manner  of  shapes,  but  not  a  shaving  could 
he  raise  f     He  then  found  a  piece  of  pine  shingle, 
which  he   succeeded  in  splitting  lengthwise,  but 
could  neither  sharpen  nor  round  it.    Just  then,  two 
of  his  playmates  coming  along  with  a  ball,  Dick 
out  his  knife  into  his  pocket,  and  went  to  join  them 

8* 


90  THE    BARLOW    KSTFE. 

in  a  game  of  ^'  one-old-cat. ^'  I  thought  to  myself, 
as  I  was  almost  bursting  with  laughter,  "  I  was 
very  fortunate  in  getting  rid  of  that  knife  at  any 
rate."  On  the  following  morning,  father  went  tn 
get  his  shaving  apparatus,  and,  of  course,  discov- 
ered his  ruined  hone.  However,  as  soon  as  I 
saw  him  start  for  the  sideboard  drawer,  I  started 
for  the  wood-house  chamber,  where  I  lay  con- 
cealed until  school-time.  I  went  to  school  with 
the  determination  not  to  go  home  at  noon,  and 
supposed  that  by  night  the  hone  business  would 
all  be  got  along  with.  But  my  hopes  were  again 
doomed  to  disappointment ;  for  when  father  came 
home  in  the  evening,  he  asked  me  if  I  had  "  been 
using  his  hone  ?"  Now,  as  I  had  been  taught 
that,  let  consequences  be  what  they  might,  I 
must  never  tell  a  lie  ;  true  to  such  instructions,  I 
promptly  answered  —  "Yes,  sir."  "For  what 
purpose  ?"  he  inquired.  "  To  sharpen  my  knife," 
I  answered.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  as  you  are  so 
fond  of  sharpening  knives,  go  get  the  case-knife 
your  mother  lends  you,  and  sharpen  that."  Ac- 
cordingly, I  got  the  case-knife,  and  he  got  the 
hone,  and  I  went  to  hojieing,  and  he  went  to  read- 
ing the  newspapers.  Now,  the  case-knife  was  a 
good  deal  like   my  Barlow  knife  ;  the  more  you 


TILE    BARLOW    KNIFE.  91 

sharpened  it,  the  duller  it  grew.  After  rubbing  it 
about  half  an  hour,  being  someAvhat  tired,  I  took 
it  to  father,  and  told  him  "  it  would  not  come 
sharp."  "  Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "  you  have  not 
honed  it  long  enough  ;  it  is  a  knife,  and,  of  course, 
can  be  sharpened.  Try  it  again."  So  at  it  I 
went  once  more  ;  and,  after  rubbing  it  until  my 
mouth  was  dry  as  a  cotton-bag,  and  my  arm 
almost  exhausted,  f  took  it  again  to  father,  and, 
with  tears  in  my  eyes,  told  him  "  it  would  not  he 
sharpened.''  "  Well,  my  son,"  said  he,  "when  I 
questioned  you  about  the  hone,  you  promptly  told 
me  the  truth  ;  for  this  I  commend  you,  and  I  have 
made  you  hone  the  case-knife  as  a  punishment 
for  spoiling  my  hone.  Now  the  next  time  you 
want  a  razor-hone  to  sharpen  a  Barlow  knife  upon, 
you  must  ask  for  it."  I  made  divers  promises  on 
the  subject,  and  fully  resolved,  in  my  own  mind, 
that  I  never  would  use  his  hone  again  without 
permission. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning  I  put  on  my 
best  suit  to  attend  church ;  and,  after  I  had  got 
down  into  the  parlor,  I  unconsciously  thrust  my 
hand  into  my  coat  pocket,  and  great  was  my  sur- 
prise when  I  drew  from  it  my  Barlow  knife. 
'*  Dick,"  said  I,  "  did  you  put  your  knife  into  my 


92  THE    BAKLOW    KNIFE. 

pocket  ?"  "  That's  not  my  knife,'*'  said  Dick. 
"  Don't  you  want  it  ?"  I  asked.  "  No  !"  he 
answered.  "  Why  not  ?"  I  inquired.  "Because 
it  will  not  cut  miy,''^  rejoined  Dick ;  "  and  I  shall 
not  carry  vour  books  this  summer  for  such  a  knife 
as  that,"  and  thereupon  he  hopped  out  of  the 
room.  The  next  day,  while  up  in  the  orchard, 
back  of  the  school-house,  I  contrived  to  have  it 
slip  out  of  my  pocket,  and  satisfied  my  conscience 
by  telling  myself  that  I  had  lost  it.  More  than  a 
week  had  I  passed  in  the  enjoyment  of  this  quiet, 
pleasing  consciousness  of  having  lost  my  knife, 
when,  one  morning  as  I  was  going  to  school,  Bill 
Williams  ran  up  to  me,  saying,  "  Bob,  here's  youi 
knife  :  I  found  it  under  the  big  sweet  apple-tree." 
"Botheration  take  the  knife,"  I  thought,  as  I  put 
it  into  my  pocket.  After  school  was  out  at  night, 
I  went  up  the  road  some  distance  from  the  school- 
house,  to  a  sand-pit.  from  which  the  neighbors 
occasionally  got  a  load  of  scruhhing-sand.  Here 
I  dug  a  hole  as  deep  as  I  could,  threw  in  my  knife, 
ouried  it  up,  and  went  away,  rejoicing  in  the  be- 
lief that  I  should  never  see  it  again. 

About  two  weeks  after  this,  Peleg  Bunce,  my 
father's  hired  man,  was  sent,  by  mother,  to  get  a 
load  of  scrubbing-sand ;  and  when  I  came  home 


THE  BARLOW  KNIFE.  93 

from  school  Peleg  said  to  me,  "  Robert,  here's 
your  knife,"  at  the  same  time  reaching  it  to  me. 
"  My  knife !"  I  exclaimed,  in  a  manner  and  with 
feelings  compounded  of  sanity  and  insanity. 
''  Divil  burn  the  knife,"  I  whispered  to  myself, 
not  wishing  to  speak  a  bad  word  distinctly. 
Peleg  found  it  in  the  sand-pit ;  and  he  knew  it 
was  mine,  for  he  once  borrowed  it  of  me  to  make 
a  bow-pin  for  old  B?'in-^hui  returned  it,  of  course, 
without  accomplishing  his  object.  Once  more  I 
put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  began  to  reflect  how  I 
should  ever  get  entirely  rid  of  it.  At  last,  a  plan 
occurred  to  me,  which  I  conceived  to  be  faultless. 
There  was  a  pond  near  my  father's  house,  at  the 
outlet  of  which  stood  a  large  blast  furnace.  I 
determined  to  drown  my  knife.  Accordingly,  lest 
its  own  weight  should  not  be  sufficient  to  keep  it 
at  the  bottom,  and  to  make  "  assurance  doubly 
sure,"  I  got  from  the  barn  a  piece  of  halter  with 
which  I  tied  a  pretty  good  sized  stone  to  my 
knife,  and  threw  it  into  the  furnace-pond.  And 
great  was  my  joy  to  see  it  turn  and  turn  around 
until  it  sank  out  of  my  sight.  Soon  as  it  had 
fairly  disappeared,  I  fetched  a  heavy  sigh  of  min* 
gled  joy  and  suspense — then  turned  home  with 
a  light  and  happy  heart.     Sweet  was  my  rest  thai 


94  THE  BARLOW  KNIFE. 

night,  and  pleasant  were  my  dreams.  Week 
after  week  passed  away,  and  my  old  knife  like- 
wise passed  into  oblivion. 

One  bright  and  beautiful  morning  in  October, 
Id  Russell  Case  and  his  two  sons  came  down 
om  the  mountain  on  which  they  lived,  to  fish  in 
he  pond  ;  and  as  they  were  notorious  fishermen, 
hey  generally  had  quite  a  company  of  boys  to 
watch  their  operations.  As  it  was  not  yet  school- 
lime,  Bill  Williams  and  myself  went  to  see  them 
draw  their  seine.  They  took  a  good  sweep  into 
the  pond  with  their  boat,  then  came  on  shore  and 
commenced  hauling  in.  We  were  all  anxiously 
watching  for  the  fish,  and  nearly  the  whole  of 
them  had  been  emptied  on  the  beach,  when  Bill 
Williams  exclaimed,  "  Why,  Bob,  ihere^s  your 
knife  .'"  And  sure  enough,  on  hauling  in  the  last 
joint  of  the  seine,  what  should  be  hanging  to  it  but 
my  knife  with  the  string  and  stone  attached  to  it ! 
Perfe-ctly  astounded  at  this  discovery,  I  could 
almost  have  prayed  that  the  waters  might  rise 
and  overwhelm  seine,  fishermen  and  all !  How 
ever,  the  thing  was  easily  explained  ;  for  the 
piece  of  halter  which  I  used  happened  to  have 
been  made  of  hemp,  and  the  knife  not  being  ai 
heavy  as  the  string,  while  the  stone  lay  on  the 


THE  BARLOW  KNIPE.  95 

bottom,  that  was  elevated  some  inches  from  it,  and 
so  the  fishermen  caught  it. 

Once  more,  with  a  heavy  heart,  I  put  that  old 
knife  in  my   pocket.     A  deep   feeling  of  disap- 
pointment and  melancholy  took  possession  of  my 
mind,  and   long  and  seriously  did  I  ponder  upon 
the  best  means  of  riddinir  myself  of  this  tantaliz- 
ing  treasure.     In  vain   had  I  endeavored  to  give 
it  away — in  vain,  to  lose  it — in  vain,  to  drown  it. 
Light,  at  last,  seemed  to  dawn  through  the  gloom 
that  had    gathered   upon   me,  and    my  resolution 
was  soon  taken.     I  repaired  one  evening  to  the 
furnace — went    into    the    top-house,    and    there 
waited    until    they  began  to  put  in  their  hourly 
supply  of  coal   and  ore.     I  then  thrust  my  knife 
into  the  box   of  ore   which  I  thought   the  JiUer 
would    put  in  first.     I  did  not  wish   to   throw  it 
directly  into  the  top  myself,  for  this  would  seem 
like  doino;  an  evil  deed,  and  such  a  one  I  did  not 
wish  to  do.     Strongly  and  quickly  did  my  heart 
beat  as  I  watched  the   baskets  of  coal  disappear ; 
and,  finally,  my  whole  frame  shook  with  agita- 
tion when  I  saw  the  filler  take  the  box  of  ore 
which  contained  my  knife,  and  toss  its  contents 
into  the  furnace !     A  long-drawn  sigh  gave  vent 
to  the  conflicting  emotions   which   had    agitated 


90  THE  BARLOW  KNIFE. 

my  mind,  and  I  turned  homeward  with  a  feeling 
of  deep,  almost  overwhelming  satisfaction  and 
delight,  that  my  eyes  had  certainly  beheld,  for  the 
last  time,  my  old  barlow  knife  ! 


97 


GERTRUDE. 

BY    MISS    A.    D.    WOODBRIDGE, 

STOCKBRID6E,   MASS. 

List  to  the  passers  by ! 
They'ie  hastening  on,  the  young,  the  beautiful, 
To  scenes  of  pleasure.     To  the  thronged  soir^e^ 
The  brilliant  party,  or  the  festive  dance, 
The  crowded  theatre,  or  op'ra  sweet. 
In  each  will  wand'ring  glances  oft  be  turned 
In  search  of  her,  the  gifted,  lovely,  young. 
And  far-famed  Gertrude. — She's  at  home  to-night. 
Look  !  who'd  not  be  "  a  glove  upon  that  hand,''* 
On  which  her  brow  reposes  ?     Th'  other  rests 
Upon  the  page  she's  reading.     Ah  !  that  sheet 
Was  filled,  no  doubt,  by  one  she  fondly  loves ; 
For,  see  !  it  meets  her  lip. — She  rises  now  ! 
Grace  !  thou'rt  a  name  for  her  !  She  moves  not  like 
A  being  of  the  earth.     We  almost  feel 
'Tis  sacrilege  to  gaze  upon  that  face 

•  "  Oh !  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand  !" 

ROMEO  AND  jm.IlT. 

G  9 


98  GERTEUDE. 

Where  thought,  emotion,  beauty,  love,  all  strive 
For  the  expression. 

Hark  !  she  touches  now 
The  strings  of  her  guitar,  and  wakes  that  voice, 
Whose  tones  thrill  o'er  the  spirit : — 

"  He's  away !  he's  away  !  he's  away ! 
Yet  I  know  he  is  constant  and  true, 
Still  my  path  is  illumed  by  love's  ray, 
Which  though  absent,  brings  him  to  my  view. 
Yet  'tis  darkness,  compared  with  the  beam 
Which  his  presence  flings  over  me  still ; 
When  with  Ernest,  why  should  I  not  deem 
That  the  world  contains  nothing  of  ill  ? 

"  He's  away  !  he's  away  !  he's  away  ! 
Yet  his  voice  will  soon  fall  on  mine  ear. 
Its  tones  will  tempt  bliss  here  to  stay, 
And  e'en  happiness  linger  to  hear. 
When  with  Ernest,  why  should  I  not  lose 
All  thoughts  of  the  world  and  its  hum  ? 
And  his  smile  above  fame  ever  choose  ? 
He  will  come  !  he  will  come  !  he  will  come  !'* 

Her  song  is  done  ! 
Footsteps  approach. — She  starts  !  the  door  is  oped. 
It  must  be — 'tis  her  lover ! — But  enoufrh. 


99 


SODUS  BAY. 


Calm  in  thy  pure  and  summer  beauty  yet, 
As  when  of  old  my  childhood's  glances  met 
This  bright  expanse,  fair  bay  !  I  see  thee  still — 
The  laughing  ripple's  curl,  the  wood-crowned  hill, 
The  deep  green  shore  rising  in  graceful  sweep, 
The  wide  smooth  waters  in  their  sun-bright  sleep, 
Scorning 'the  change   wrought   by  each    passing 

year. 
In  loveliness  unfading,  still  are  here. 

Lovely  thou  art,  sweet  bay! — when  first  the 
beam 
Of  morning  glances  on  the  silvery  stream 
Which  seeks  thy  bosom — when  the  south  winds 

break 
Thy  water's  glassy  slumber,  and  awake 
A  thousand  sparkling  eddies — when  the  sky 
At  noon  gleams  blue  and  distant  from  on  high — 
When  winds  are  hushed  in  peace,  the   flagging 

sail 
Wooing  in  vain  from  Heaven  the  wished-for  gal 


100  SODUS    BAY. 

Or  at  bright  eve,  when  the  rich  sunset's  pride 
Has  gemmed   with  shining  gold   their   glancing 

tide — 
No  fairer  spof,  I  ween,  the  radiant  sun 
In  his  broad  path  of  light  has  looked  upon ; 
And  the  pale  moon  in  all  her  midnight  round 
No  place  of  holier  loveliness  has  found. 
Nature  is  here  in  wildness.     Yonder  isles, 
Upon  whose  wooded  verge  the  sunlight  smiles 
To   meet   the    glittering    wave,    know   scarce   a 

tread. 
Save  of  the  lonely  huntsman.     Yet  'tis  said, 
One  hero  on  their  shore  has  found  a  grave. 
He  died  in  fight  the  death  that  fits  the  brave. 
And   sleeps  unheeded  there : — the  mound  which 

swells 
So  greenly  near,  his  place  of  burial  tells. 

Peaceful    thou    art — the    tempests    wild    thai 

sweep 
The  lake,  are  powerless  to  disturb  thy  sleep. 
Thou  hear'st  the  voices  of  thy  parent  main, 
Speaking  in  thunders ; — but  their  warning  strain 
Wakes  no  stern  echo  here — in  safety  still 
The  fisherman  may  guide  his  bark  at  will, 
And  smile  to  hear  the  billows'  angry  roar, 
Chafing  in  rage  upon  the  neighboring  shore. 


SODUS   BAY.  101 

Farewell !  I  found,  and  leave  thee,  calm  and 

bright, 
And  changeless  still ! — and  thus,  when  starless 

night 
Has  closed  on  eyes  which  loved  to  look  on  thee, 
Wilt  thou  smile  on — then,  too,  as  quietly 
Yon  towering  banks  will  look  into  thy  face 
On  their  unbroken  shade.     Thou  in  the  embrace 
Of  this  wide  shore  as  sweetly  shalt  repose — 
As  brightly  gleam  at  evening's  fervid  close. 
Thou  hast  no  part  in  fleeting  years  that  tell 
Of  human  ills !     My  native  shore — farewell ! 

£.  F.  S. 


908 


MARY  WALLACE. 


A  JUTENILE  STORT. 


*'  Now  for  a  story !"  said  Henry  Jackson,  as 
he  put  the  last  piece  to  a  dissected  map,  which 
lay  on  the  table  before  him  ;  "  Grandmother,  do 
you  remember  you  promised  to  give  us  one  of 
your  best  to-night,  if  I  could  put  this  new  map 
together ;  and  see,  here  it  is,  every  bit  in  its 
place — all  right !" 

"  Not  quite  so  fast,"  said  George  Gray,  an  in- 
telligent youth  of  fourteen,  who,  with  his  sister 
Ann,  was  spending  Christmas-week  with  his 
cousins  in  town  ;  "  not  quite  so  fast,  Henry  ;  see, 
here  is  a  part  of  the  Hudson  spliced  on  to  the 
Connecticut ;  and  New  York  and  New  Haven 
have  fairly  changed  places  !" 

"  What  of  that !"  returned  Henry,  biting  his 
lips  with  vexation,  as  he  saw  his  mistake ;  "  I 
don't  care  for  that !" 

"  Never  say  you  donH  care,''  said  the  grand- 
mother, laying  her  book  and  spectacles,  at  once, 


MARY    WALLACE.  103 

aside,  "  never  allow  yourself  to  say,  I  don't  care ; 
for,  besides  being  generally  a  falsehood,  it  always 
shows  a  bad  disposition ;  and  no  good  ever  came 
of  it." 

"  But  Georcre  needn't  feel  so  smart  because 
he's  a  little  quicker  and  more  forward  than  I  am," 
replied  the  boy.  "  I  guess,  if  I  lived  out  of  town, 
I  could  learn  to  put  dissected  maps  together,  too  ; 
why  he's  nothing  to  do,  from  morning  till  night, 
but  to  study  out  puzzles !" 

"  I  think,"  said  Ann,  with  true  womanly  spirit 
taking  the  aggrieved  side,  "  I  think  our  George 
ought  to  know  something  about  it,  for  he  was  a 
whole  evening,  only  last  week,  putting  together 
the  dissected  picture  uncle  William  gave  me  ;  and 
I  am  sure  it  plagued  him  just  twice  as  much  as 
this  map  has  y ju,  cousin  Henry ;  but  I  do  not 
think  he  meant  to  be  unkind  to  you,  either ;  and 
[  don't  know  why  he  should,  you  are  always  so 
kind  to  us :  and  I'm  sure  you're  full  as  forward, 
and  quick  to  learn  any  thing  as  he  is ;  and  you 
know  you  are  about  my  age,  almost  two  years 
younger  than  George." 

"  \  ou  are  a  good  girl,  cousin  Ann — and  1  love 
you,"  said  Henry,  wiping  the  tears  from  his 
brightening  eyes  ;  "  you  always  have  such  a  waj' 


104  MARY    WALLACE. 

to  put  one  in  good  humor,  and  reconcile  every 
thing.  Now,  George,  give  me  your  hand  ;  I  will 
acknowledge  I  was  wrong  in  getting  vexed  with 
you,  and  speaking  as  I  did,  especially  now  you 
are  visiting  me ;  and  I  ought  to  do  every  thing  to 
make  your  time  pass  pleasantly.  I  was  wrong, 
too,  in  saying  I  did  not  care ;  for  1  did  care. 
Grandmother,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  my  child,"  said  the  good 
woman,  folding  her  arms  round  the  affectionate 
boy ;  "  God  grant  you  may  always  be  as  ready 
to  acknowledge  your  ^ults  !" 

"  And  now  brother  is  sorry  for  doing  wrong, 
and  has  made  it  ail  up  with  cousin  George,  you 
l^'ZZtell  us  a  story,  won't  you,  dear  grandmother  ?" 
said  Helen,  a  child  of  seven  years,  who  was  lean- 
ing over  the  arm  of  Mrs.  Gray's  chair. 

"  And  do  tell  one  pitty  long,"  said  little  Mary, 
a  lisping  infant  of  three  years,  laying  her  curly 
head  in  her  grandmother's  lap. 

"Now  that  peace  is  restored,  my  children," 
said  Mrs.  Gray,  looking  fondly  upon  each  one  of 
the  little  flock  that  gathered  round  her,  "  I  will 
tell  you  a  story  of  one  from  whom  we  are  all 
descended." 

"  Was  her  name  Gray  ?"  asked  Ann,  eagerly. 


MARY  WALLACE.  105 

"  Not  at  the  period  to  which  our  story  refers ; 
thou.^h  afterwards  it  became  so.'" 

"  We  are  in  haste  for  you  to  begin,"  said  Henry, 
hurrying  books,  maps,  and  pictures,  without  any 
order,  into  a  table  drawer. 

"  Don't  be  impatient,  child — old  folks  never 
like  to  be  hurried,"  said  Mrs.  Gray ;  "  and  I've  a 
good  will  not  to  tell  you  any  story  at  all,  just  for 
huddling  up  your  things  in  such  a  slovenly  man- 
ner." 

"  Forgive  poor  Henry  once  again,"  said  the 
good-natured  Ann,  "and  I  will  put  them  all  nice;" 
and  she  took  the  things  all  out  of  the  drawer, 
and  placed  the  books  neatly  in  the  book-case, 
and  laid  the  maps  and  pictures  into  a  portfolio ; 
and  when  she  had  done  she  said,  *'  Now,  grand- 
mother, are  you  not  ready  ?" 

"  Not  quite  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  with  an  affec- 
tionate smile  ;  "  you,  my  dear  Ann,  are  such  a 
neat  little  girl,  I'm  sure  you  will  be'  willing  to 
wait  till  Sally  has  swept  the  hearth  and  replenish- 
ed the  fire." 

"  Replenished  is  among  my  definitions,"  said 
little  Helen;  "  but  I  didn't  know  that  it  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  making  a  fire." 

"  Making  a  fire !"  repeated  George ;  "  didn't  t 


106  MARY  WALLACE. 

tell  you  only  yesterday,  that  we  cannot  make  fire, 
but  only  kindle  it?" 

*'  Yes,  you  did  tell  me  so,  to  be  sure ;  but  I 
didn't  believe  you.  I  guess  if  you  had  been  here 
the  other  night  when  the  Universalist  Chapel  was 
burnt,  you  would  think  somebody  could  make  a 
fire — and  a  pretty  large  one,  too." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  word  re- 
plenish ?"  asked  Mrs.  Gray. 

"Why,  replenish  means — it  means — to  fill  up, 
I  believe ;  but  I  don't  see  as  that  has  anything 
to  do  with  fire,  after  all." 

"  Why  if  we  add  wood  to  the  fire,  and  so  fill  up, 
or  nearly  fill  up,  the  fireplace,  may  it  not  be 
called  replenishing?  You  commence  the  critic 
early,  child,"  said  the  grandmother  ;  but  she  was 
far  from  being  angry  with  little  Helen  for  her  re- 
marks ;  "  for  it  is  right  and  proper  for  children  to 
inquire,  and  understand,  and  learn  all  they  can." 

"  But,  grandmother,"  said  George,  "  I  have 
placed  your  chair  in  the  warmest  corner — the  fire 
is  replenished,  if  Miss  Helen  will  allow  me  to 
say  so — the  hearth  is  swept — Sally  has  got  her 
knitting,  and  is  going  to  sit  down  with  us — and 
we  are  all  ready,  and  impatient  to  hear  you." 

"I  wish  father  and  mother  would  be  out  at  a 


MARY  WALLACE.  107 


• 


party  every  night,"  said  little  Helen,  as  the  cvrcle 
of  happy  and  inquisitive  children  took  their  re- 
spective seats,  and  drew  around  Mrs.  Gray  ;  "  for 
you,  dear  grandmother,  always  sit  with  us  when 
they  are  out ;  and  so  do  brother,  and  cousin 
Ann,  and  George — and  we  have  such  happy 
times  !" 

The  good  lady  drew  the  youngest  child  to 
her  arms  ;  and,  taking  the  hand  of  Helen,  who  had 
drawn  her  little  chair  very  close  to  her  grand- 
mother, thus  began  : 

"  It  was  a  cold  night  in  December,  1664.  The 
winter  wind  was  howling  among  the  bare  forest- 
rees,  and  whistling  through  the  heavy  and  open 
casements  of  a  few  small  houses,  which  stood  in 
the  midst  of  the  wilderness,  upon  a  spot  then 
mostly  known  as  the  Plantations.  It  was  Sab- 
bath evening.  The  family  belonging  to  one  of  the 
most  comfortable  looking  houses  rose  up  slowly 
from  their  usual  evening  devotions,  and  drew 
round  a  large  and  blazing  fire.  The  snow  and 
hail  beat  furiously  against  the  one  window  of  the 
room,  and  for  some  minutes  no  one  spoke  :  and 
then  they  heard  a  low  groan  as  of  one  in  the 
agonies  of  death  ;  and  this  was  followed  by  a  faint 
screech  and  a  moan  of  distress. 


108  MARY  WALLACE 


II  I 


The  Indians  !  the  Indians  !'  cried  a  boy  ahoul 
six  years  old,  and  he  hid  his  little  head  in  his 
mother's  lap. 

"  'Nobody  shall  hurt  my  boy  !'  said  the  father, 
patting  his  head,  '  nobody  shall  harm  thee,  child;' 
and  he  rose  up,  and  putting  on  a  broad-brimmed 
hat  turned  up. at  the  sides,  and  taking  an  iron- 
headed  cane,  he  began  to  unfasten  the  door. 

"'Thou  wilt  not,  Simon  Gray,'  said  the  wife, 
laying  a  hand  on  his  arm,  'ihou  wilt  not  open  our 
dwelling  to  the  enemy  V 

"' Thy  fears  are  natural,  Rebecca,'  said  the 
husband,  turning  with  momentary  hesitation,  '  for 
verily,  hath  the  cunning  enemy  been  as  a  snake 
in  the  grass  to  the  Lord's  people.' 

"  '  Look  forth  from  the  window,  first,  then,'  said 
ihe  wife ;  '  hast  thou  lived  so  long  in  the  wilder- 
ness and  not  learned  that  the  wicked  one  is  full 
of  snares?'  But  a  succession  of  low  groans,  ap- 
parently near  the  house,  overcame  his  fears ;  and 
hastily  unfastening  and  throwing  open  the  narrow 
door,  he  said,  '  Farewell,  Rebecca — the  arm  of 
the  Lord  is  forever  with  his  children !' 

"  '  Forsake  me  not,  Simon,'  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
lifting  the  little  boy  to  her  arms,  '  I  will  go  with 
ihee ;'  but  lie  had  already  passed  the  threshold 


MARY    WALLACE.  10£ 

and  thrown  open  the  gate  that  led  from  the  little 
enclosure  around  their  dwelling.  He  paused ; 
listened  again  ;  and  passed  into  the  street.  The 
cries  were  repeated,  but  not  so  loud  or  so  fre- 
quently as  they  had  been.  He  paused  again  and 
looked  around,  but  still  saw  nothing  but  the  thick 
falling  snow,  which  beat  so  heavily  as  to  obscure 
almost  everything ;  besi(ies,  it  was  very  dark. 

"  Who  was  it,  grandmother  ?"  whispered  Helen, 
"who  was  it?" 

"  Hush,  sister  !"  said  Henry,  '•  she  was  just  go- 
ing to  tell." 

"  Again,"  resumed  Mrs.  Gray,  "  again  h-e  heard 
the  same  low  cry;  and  just  as  his  wife  came  up, 
he  stumbled  upon  a  human  figure  crouched  at  the 
foot  of  a  very  large  snow-bank.  It  proved  to  be 
an  Indian  woman,  almost  perished  with  cold  and 
hunger. 

"  '  The  Lord  be  praised  !  and  bless  thee,  Simon 
Gray !'  said  Rebecca,  as  she  assisted  her  husband 
to  lift  the  poor  creature  from  the  earth  ;  '  the  Lord 
be  magnified !' 

"  '  Leave  Namoina,  take  de  baby !'  said  the 
poor  creature  in  broken  English,  and  she  point- 
ed  to  a  dark  heap  at  a  little  distance ;  but  at  the 
instant   William   had   reached   the  spot,   and,   as 

10 


110  MARY    WALLACE. 

his  mother  came  up,  he  uncovered  the  face  of  a 
sleeping  infant.  The  little  creature  was  wrapped 
in  a  thick  covering  of  blankets,  and  was  sleeping 
as  peacefully  amid  the  snow  as  if  it  was  lyir.g 
in  its  own  mother's  bosom. 

"  Rebecca  knelt  beside  the  little  one,  and  blessed 
God  that  she  had  been  the  instrument  of  saving 
Its  life.  The  falling  show,  and  the  cold  wind 
blowing'upon  the  child's  face,  awoke  it;  and  as 
it  opened  its  eyes  it  looked  up  in  the  face  of 
Rebecca,  who  was  kneeling  beside  it  with  a  lan- 
tern in  her  hand,  and  smiled,  and  lifted  up  its 
little  arms. 

"  '  The  Lord  has  sent  thee  to  me,'  said  Mrs. 
Gray,  while  her  heart  was  filled  with  tenderness. 
'  The  Lord  has  sent  thee  to  me,  to  lie  in  my  bosom 
and  be  unto  me  instead  of  my  own  little  buried 
Rebecca !' 

"  The  good  man  and  his  wife  were  not  long 
in  removing  the  poor  Indian  woman  and  the  child 
to  the  house,  and,  for  some  time,  the  poor  creature 
did  not  appear  to  know  what  was  passing  around 
her ;  but  affer  havin":  taken  some  hot  drink  she 
seemed  to  revive,  and  cried  out,  '  Me  baby !  me 
flower !'  and  she  looked  wildly  round  for  the 
child.     Mrs.  Gray  .'aid  it  on  the  mat  beside  her, 


MARY    WALLACE.  Ill 

and  the  little  one  sat  up  and  twisted  its  littlo 
fingers  in  her  wet  black  hair,  and  then  nestled 
close  to  the  Indian  woman's  bosom  till  she  slept. 
Mrs.  Gray  then  carefully  removed  the  child,  and 
fed  it  with  some  warm  milk.  The  poor  little 
thing,  as  if  conscious  of  hsr  kindness,  looked  up  in 
her  face  and  softly  repeated,  '  Mamma — mamma.' 
The  imperfect  words  went  to  the  heart  of  Re- 
becca ;  and  she  again  resolved  that,  as  tlie  Lord 
had  cast  the  little  stranger  upon  her  protection, 
she  would  be  unto  it  a  mother. 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gray  hoped  to  learn  something 
of  the  child  when  the  Indian  woman  should  be 
restored,  but  they  were  disappointed ;  for  she 
arose  at  the  dawn  of  day,  and  stealing  softly  to 
the  bedside  of  Mrs.  Gray,  and  taking  the  child 
from  beside  its  new  mother,  she  appeared  about 
to  carry  it  away ;  but  Mrs.  Gray,  as  she  awoke, 
observing  her,  cried  out,  '  Give  me  back  the  babe! 
give  her  to  me  !' 

"  The  Indian  woman  fixed  her  piercing  black 
eyes  upon  the  face  of  Rebecca  for  several  min- 
utes, then  closing  them,  she  appeared  to  be  rea- 
soning with  herself;  for,  upon  lifting  them  again, 
she  said,  solemnly,  '  The  God  of  the  white  man 
calleth  for  his  child.     The  rose  cannot  bloom  in 


112  MARY    WALLACE. 

the  desert.     The  lily  springeth  not  in  the  wilder- 
ness.' 

"  Thus  saying,  she  chanted  a  kind  •:  f  prayer  in 
the  Indian  tongue,  and  folding  the  babe  an  instant 
to  her  bosom,  she  replaced  it  beside  Mrs.  Gray ; 
and  before  any  one  could  speak  or  prevent  her, 
she  had  thrown  open  the  door  and  passed  sv/iftly 
from  the  cottage. 

"  ^  Rise,  Simon  Gray !'  said  the  kind-hearted 
Rebecca,  'rise  and  follow  the  poor  creature,  and 
persuade  her  to  stay  till  the  storm  is  past,  and 
offer  her  food.'  But  though  the  good  man  made 
all  possible  haste  in  dressing,  the  woman  had 
reached  the  summit  of  a  high  hill  which  lay 
toward  the  Bay  colony  ere  he  got  into  the  street ; 
and  soon  she  was  lost  in  the  distance^  and  the 
thick  falling  snow,  which  was  still  beating  down 
with  great  violence." 

"  Did  she  freeze  to  death,  grandmother  ?"  asked 
Helen. 

''  Did  she  never  return  ?"  inquired  Henry. 

"  You'll  both  get  answered  when  grandmother 
has  finished  her  story,"  said  George  Gray,  with  a 
shrewd  look  to  his  cousins. 

"Yes,  all  in  good  time,  children,"  said  Mrs. 
Gray,  as  she  resumed.     "  They  could  not  possibly 


MAKY   WALLACE.  113 

find  out  how  the  Indian  woman  canrie  by  the  child, 
or,  for  certainty,  who  she  was  ;  yet  by  her  calling 
herself  Namoina,  they  supposed  she  must  be  a 
woman  who  was  called  by  her  tribe  cunning,  and 
revered  as  a  prophetess,  though  the  white  people 
knew  that  the  poor  creature  was  at  times  crazy  ; 
for  she  had  seen  her  husband  and  child  bleed, 
both  in  one  day ;  the  first  fell  and  died  while  de- 
fendinor  his  home  ;  the  other  was  inhumanly  mur- 
dered  by  wretches  who  deserved  not  the  name  of 
men !  And  so  poor  Namoina,  or,  as  the  white 
people  called  her,  Rachel,  went  crazy. 

"  Mrs.  Gray  found,  by  a  medal  that  liung  round 
the  infant's  neck,  that  her  name  was  Mary  Wal- 
lace;  and  Mary  Wallace  she  was  called.  She 
appeared  to  be  about  a  year  old.  She  was  a  fine, 
healthy  child,  and  soon  grew  nicely,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gray  were  very  fond  of  her  ;  and  Wil- 
liam called  her  his  little  sister,  and  taught  her  to 
walk,  and  gave  her  more  than  half  of  all  the 
nice  things  he  had — (they  did  not  have  sugar- 
plums and  candy  then,  but  children  were  better 
off  without  them,  and  a  great  deal  more  healthy) 
— and  he  would  tell  her  pretty  stories,  and  drag 
her  in  his  little  wagon ;  and  he  loved  her  dearly. 
She  was  a  sweet-tempered  and  lovely  child,  and 

H  10* 


114  MARY    WALLACE. 

very  seldom  did  any  thing  to  displeasp!  her  pa- 
rents ;  and  when  she  did  she  would  grieve  very 
much,  and  she  never  could  be  happy  till  she  was 
foro-iven.  When  she  was  twelve  years  old,  there 
was  not  a  fairer  or  lovelier  child  in  tne  whole 
Providence  Plantations,  than  Mary  Wallace.  Her 
eyes  were  bright  and  blue ;  her  long,  light  brown 
hair  fell  in  beautiful  curls  upon  her  shoulders, 
and  her  voice  had  such  a  sweet  and  happy  tone, 
and  her  countenance  such  an  amiable  expression, 
that  the  young  loved  her  without  envy,  and  the 
old  never  passed  her  without  a  blessing.  The 
lark  did  not  rise  earlier  than  Mary  Wallace.  The 
first  thing  in  the  morning  she  would  be  seen  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm,  tripping  lightly  over  the 
grass,  with  her  little  white  feet  scattering  the 
dew,  and  singing  sweetly  and  merrily  as  the 
birds  themselves.  No  one  in  the  Plantations  had 
not  felt  her  kindness  ;  she  always  had  an  arm 
for  the  aged — some  little  delicacy  for  the  sick — 
tears  for  the  suffering — songs  and  smiles  for  the 
happy — and  bread,  and  beer,  and  pity,  even  for 
the  poor  Indian.  In  short,  the  good  people  of  the 
Plantations  believed,  that,  by  a  special  mercy  of 
Divine  Providence,  she  had  been  sent  among 
them.     She  was  of  great  assistance  to  her  parents. 


MARY    -^TALLAGE.  116 

They  believed  that  they  could  not  do  without  her. 
In  the  spring  she  helped  plant  the  corn  and  beans 
— weeded  the  vegetable  beds  in  the  garden — and, 
hrough  all  the  warm  season,  she  drove  home 
the  cows  at  night — fed  the  sheep  and  pigs — and 
took  care  of  the  hens,  ducks,  geese,  and  their  little 
ones.  In  the  summer  she  gathered  berries  and 
laid  in  herbs  for  winter.  In  autumn  she  helped 
harvest  the  corn — gathered  the  dry  beans  and 
peas,  and  did  a  great  many  other  useful  things ; 
and  in  the  winter  she  sat,  for  the  most  part,  by  the 
fireside,  knitting  stockings  for  the  family,  and 
mending  her  own  and  William's  clothes — or  she 
read  the  Bible,  of  a  long  Sabbath  evening,  to  her 
father  and  mother :  she  was  never  idle. 

"  Mary  never  knew,  till  she  was  ten  years  old, 
but  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gray.  At  this  time  her  mother  thought  best  to 
inform  her  how  she  had  been  brought  to  them. 
She  was  grieved,  at  first,  and  cried  very  hard ; 
but  she  could  not  comprehend  how  it  was  possible 
that  they  who  had  watched  her — nursed  her— 
loved  and  supported  her  from  earliest  infancy, 
should  not  be  her  own  father,  and  mother,  and 
brother ;  and,  instead  of  indulging  childish  curi- 


116  MARY    WALLACE. 

osity  respecting  her  real  parents,  she  treated  the 
whole  as  an  unpleasant  story,  and  strove  to  forget 
it ;  and,  with  her  sweet,  happy  disposition,  she 
was  not  long  in  doing  this ;  and  very  soon  she 
smiled  as  sweetly — and  sang  as  merrily — and 
danced  as  gaily  over  the  meadows,  as  she  had 
done  before.  About  this  time  a  distressing  war 
broke  out,  called  'King  Philip's  War ;'  and  the 
times  were  more  distressing  than  you,  my  dear 
children,  can  well  imagine.  There  is  no  correct 
history  of  those  times ;  but  the  most  considerable 
account  you  will  find  in  Captain  '  Church's  His- 
tory of  Philip's  War.'  The  Indians,  when  they 
took  any  of  the  white  people  prisoners,  treated 
them  very  cruelly ;  and,  sometimes,  put  them  to 
death  with  great  torture." 

"  I've  read  all  about  that,  and  I  don't  blame  the 
Indians  at  all !"  said  George  Gray,  starting  to  his 
feet  with  much  earnestness,  while  his  eyes  almost 
flashed  fire ;  "  what  right  had  the  white  people 
to  come  here  and  cheat  them — and  rob  them  of 
their  lands — and  drive  them  from  their  houses  ? 
Philip  was  a  noble  fellow !  If  I  had  lived  then  I 
would  have  been  on  his  side — at  any  rate— J' 
UH)uIdfr 


MARY    WALLACE.  117 

"And,  brother,"  said  Ann,  catching  some  of- 
his  warmth,  "  don't  vou   remember  what  our  last 
fourth  of  July  orator  said  of  Philip?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  George,  quickly,  "  these  were 
his  very  words  :  '  Philip,  the  hero  of  Mount  Hope, 
though  a  savage,  was  a  man — and  a  nohle  rrmn — • 
and  had  he  lived  in  otiier  times  and  other  cir- 
cumstances, he  might  have  been  a  Csesar — an 
Alexander — a  Napoleon  : — and  what  is  saying 
more,  and  the  most  that  can  be  said  of  any  man 
— a  Washington !'  "  and  the  boy  walked  the  room 
quickly,  while  his  burning  cheek  and  flashing  eye 
told  that  his  spirit  was  getting  too  strong  for  his 
young  bosom. 

"  We  will  not  dispute  now  whether  the  Eng- 
lish or  the  Indians  were  right  or  wrong,"  said  the 
prudent  grandmother.  "Doubtless  they  were 
both  to  blame.  Well,  when  Mary  Wallace  was 
about  ten  years  old,  and  her  brother  fifteen,  Mr. 
Gray  and  William  M^ent  to  join  the  forces  of  Cap- 
tain Church.  Mary  it  was  who  buckled  on  their 
knapsacks  and  pinned  their  collars  on  the  morning 
of  their  first  departure.  She  would  not  have  cried 
a  single  tear  if  she  could  have  avoided  it,  because 
her  mother  was  so  much  distressed  ;  but  it  was 
Buch  a  dreadful  thing  to  see  them  going  away, 


118  MARY    WALLACE. 

and  to  think  they  might  never  return,  that  pool 
Mary  sobbed  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  was  break- 
ing ;  and  when  thev  said  '  farewell,  Mary !'  her 
heart  was  so  full  she  could  not  speak  ;  and  when 
they  stepped  from  the  threshold,  poor  Mary  hid 
her  face  in  her  mother's  lap,  because  she  could 
not  bear  to  see  them  go.  But  after  she  had  wept 
a  while,  Mrs.  Gray  wiped  away  her  tears  and 
got  the  Bible  and  bade  her  read  ;  and  they  were 
comforted. 

"  Every  morning  and  evening  Mary  Wallace 
knelt  by  her  little  bed-side  and  prayed  to  God  for 
the  safe  return  of  her  father  and  brother.  They 
came  home  occasionally,  but  for  the  space  of  two 
years  they  were  gone  most  of  the  time.  They 
met,  however,  with  no  serious  accident  ;  and 
Mary  and  her  mother  had  much  reason  to  be 
thankful. 

**  One  pleasant  day  during  the  second  summer 
of  the  war,  Mary  had  taken  her  little  basket,  and 
calling  Hunter,  a  large  dog,  she  went  to  gather 
berries;  but,  not  finding  the  fruit  plenty,  she 
wandered  farther  into  the  woods  than  she  should 
have  done  at  that  dangerous  time.  She  was 
very  busy  picking  some  nice  large  berries,  which 
she  had   found   in  great   abundance,  when,  pre- 


MARY    WALLACE.  119 

sently,    she   thought   she    heard    a   groan ;    and, 
without  waiting  to  think  there  might  be  danger, 
she  swung  her   basket  on   her  arm  and  skipped 
through  the  bushes,   followed  by  Hunter.     Very 
soon  she  saw  a  large  Indian  seated  upon  a  flat 
rock    and   leaning    against   a   tree   behind   him, 
with   a  tomahawk  and  a  bundle  of  arrows  laid 
at  his  side.     Almost  any  little  girl  would  have 
been    frightened,    and    have    run    away    crying ; 
and,    indeed,    Mary    Wallace    herself   felt    that 
it  might  be  wrong  to   approach  him   when   she 
thought  of  her  poor,  lone  mother ;   and  she  was 
just  going  to  turn  back  and  run  home  with  all  her 
might,  when  she  saw  that  the  poor  man  was  pale 
and  faint,  and  could  not  sit  upright  but  for  the 
tree   against   which    he    leaned.      But   what,    in 
reality,  could  Mary  have  to  fear  ?    She  was  known 
to  most  of  the  tribes  around,  very  few  of  whom 
had  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  her  kindness. 
Her  little    room   was   decorated    with   numerous 
tokens  of  Indian  gratitude,  in  the  shape  of  wam- 
pum belts  and  baskets,  curious  shells  and  stones, 
and  many  other  things;  and  the  Indians  called 
her  'the   child   of  Sunshine'  —  'the   Flower'  — 
*the    Lily,'  and  many  other  endearing  names; 
but  mostly,  '  the  Bird  of  Peace.'     Instead  of  run- 


120  MARi'    WALLACE. 

aing  away,  as  she  had  at  first  thought  to  do,  Mary 
drew  near  the  Indian  and  saw  that  he  was  asleep, 
Dr  had  fainted  from  loss  of  blood,  which  was  flow- 
ing fast  from  a  large  wound  in  his  leg  The 
sight  of  blood  naturally  made  Mary  feel  sick  and 
dizzy;  but,  without  hesitation,  she  took  a  little 
ghawl  from  her  neck  and  bound  it  round  the  limb. 
The  dog,  as  soon  as  he  smelt  the  blood,  began  tc 
bark  furiously ;  and  this,  together  with  the  pain 
caused  by  binding  the  wound,  aroused  the  Indian, 
who,  thinking,  probably,  that  the  enemy  had  fallen 
upon  him,  clenched  his  tomahawk  and  uttered  a 
fearful  cry.  Mary  trembled  an  instant,  as  if  she 
already  felt  the  blow ;  but  she  saw  that  he  was 
still  very  faint ;  and,  taking  courage,  she  caught 
his  arm  and  said,  in  the  Indian  tongue,  '  Fear  not, 
father,  it  is  Mary !'  and  as  he  looked  upon  her, 
she  pointed  to  the  limb  which  she  had  nearly 
bandaged.  He  appeared  very  grateful  when  he 
saw  what  she  had  done,  but  he  was  too  weak  and 
faint  to  say  much  ;  and  he  only  whispered,  as  he 
placed  his  hand  on  the  child's  head,  '  Welcome, 
daughter  of  Heaven !' 

"  Little  Mary  then  ran  home  as  fast  as  she  could, 
and  told  her  mother  about  the  poor  wounded  man, 
and  asked  her   for  some   food ;    and  her  mother 


MARY  WALLACE.  121 

gave  her  some  new  milk,  and  some  beer,  and 
bread.  Mrs.  Gray  went  out  with  her  and  carried 
a  blanket  to  cover  him ;  and  she  bound  up  the 
wound  better  than  Mary  could,  putting  on  some 
healing  balsam.  They  persuaded  him  to  partake 
of  the  food  ;  and,  afterward,  assisted  him  to  a 
shelter  under  a  rock,  where  they  left  him  quite 
comfortable. 

"  The  next  day  Mary  asked  permission  to  go 
and  carry  food  to  the  sick  Indian ;  and,  calling 
Hunter,  she  took  the  basket  her  mother  gave  her, 
and  went  to  the  woods.  When  she  arrived  at 
the  rock  she  found  that  the  sick  man  had  risen 
and  was  seated  on  the  top  of  the  rock ;  and  by 
his  side  an  Indian  woman,  who  was  caressing 
him  with  much  affection.  Little  Mary  had  come 
quite  near  before  they  saw  her ;  for  she  stepped 
very  lightly ;  but  as  soon  as  the  old  man  did  per- 
ceive her,  he  said  in  English,  '  Behold  the  Bird 
of  Peace !'  As  he  spoke  the  woman  looked 
earnestly  at  Mary  for  several  minutes,  and  then 
she  cried  out,  '  My  lily  !  my  blossom !  my  babee!' 
and,  springing  from  the  rock,  she  caught  the  child 
in  her  arms  and  almost  suffocated  her  with  tears 
and  caresses. 

"  Little  Mary  alarmea  and  strangely  agitated, 

11 


122  MAKY  WALLACE. 

whispered,  '  Let  me  go  home  to  my  mother — do 
let  me  go  home  !' 

" '  Thy  mother !'  repeated  the  woman,  '  thy 
own  mother  is  gone  across  the  wide  waters,  far 
to  the  rising  sun — and  thy  father,'  she  pointed 
up  to  heaven,  '  it  is  twice  five  summers  since  thy 
father  went  to  the  hunting  grounds  of  the  pale- 
face— he  died — he  was  murdered ;  and  so  was 
my  own  little  blossom — my  own  babe !'  Her 
voice  was  choked — she  could  not  speak  any 
more — her  eyes  grew  burning  and  wild — her 
features  quivered,  and  she  shook  so  fearfully  that 
Mary  was  frightened,  and  tried  to  get  from  her 
arms. 

" 'Namoina,' said  the  old  man,  '  the  daughter 
of  Anawon  must  not  be  a  coward.' 

"  This  appeal  had  the  desired  effect — she  dash- 
ed the  few  burning  tears  from  her  eyelids,  and 
Dending  a  moment  before  her  father,  she  rose  up 
again  with  a  calm  brow,  that  told  not  of  the 
struggle  in  her  heart ;  and,  taking  Mary  again  in 
her  arms,  she  kissed  her,  and  said  a  great  many 
tender  and  affectionate  things  to  her. 

" '  Shall  I  never  see  my  mother  ?'  asked  the 
rhild,  mournfully  ;   '  has  she  forgotten  me  V 

a  <  Forget  thee,  my  flower !     Does  the  mothe? 


MARY  WALLACE.  123 

sver  forget  the  child  that  has  fed  from  her  bosom !' 
Again  she  was  terribly  distressed.  After  a  few 
minutes  she  held  the  child  up  toward  heaven  and 
said,  '  The  Great  Spirit  of  thy  fathers  keep  thee — 
and  bless  thee !'  then  setting  her  down  again,  she 
resumed  her  former  seat  on  the  rock  and  began 
picking  up  the  pebbles  around  her  and  counting 
them  ;  but  no  entreaty  or  endearment  could  draw 
a  single  word  or  look  from  her. 

"  Mary  saw  Anawon  partake  of  some  of  the 
food  she  had  brought  him,  and,  leaving  the  re- 
mainder, she  took  her  basket  and  returned  home 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  really  unhappy ;  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  did  not  open  her 
whole  heart  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Gray,  however, 
observed  that  her  cheek  was  flushed,  and  thought 
she  must  have  taken  cold  ;  and  when  it  was  about 
sunset  she  persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed.  Mary 
was  glad  to  be  where  no  one  could  notice  or  dis- 
turb her  feelings  ;  so,  kissing  her  good  mother, 
ihe  went  to  her  room,  and  knelt  down  by  her 
little  bed  and  said  her  evening  prayers.  Very 
soon  she  heard  voices ;  and  then  she  knew  that 
her  father  and  brother  had  come ;  and  just  as 
she  was  going  to  rise  from  her  bed  and  dress, 
for    the    purpose    of   seeing    them,    she    heard 


124  MARY  WALLACE. 

William   say  that  they  had  got  on   the  track  of 

old   Anawon,*  and  that  he  believed  he  was  not 

far   hence,  probably  out   toward    Seekonk ;  and 

that  they  had   better  take  whatever  nourishment 

could  be  had  and  be  after  him  directly.      Mrs. 

Gray  said  nothing  of  the  wounded  Indian  in  the 

woods  ;    and  when  William  said  he  must  go  in 

and  give  his  sister  one  kiss,  she  said,  '  Do  not  go 

to-night,  my  son,  for  the  child  has  a  bad  cold  and 

I  am  re9.11y  afraid  she  will  take  the  fever ;  and 

if  she  knows  you    are  come   she  will   not  sleep 

another  wink  to-night  for  joy.' 

"  At  any  other  time,  indeed,  Mary  would  have 

been  overjoyed  to  see  them — but  now  she   was 

thinking   only  of  the   poor   Indian,  and  that  he 

might  be  killed ;  and,  in   her  distress,  she  could 

not  help  thinking  that  men  were  very  cruel  and 

very  wicked  to  wish  to  murder  each  other.     After 

bearing  her  anxiety  of  mind  as  long  as  she  could, 

she  resolved  to  go  herself,  if  she  could  steal  from 

the  house  unperceived,  and  warn  the  Indian  of  his 

danger. 

*'  •  That  was  right !'  exclaimed  both  the  boys  at 
once. 

*  Anawon  was  a  mighty  chief  under  King  Philip ;  and 
was  one  of  the  bravest  and  most  sagacious  warriors  among 
ail  the  tribes. 


MARY    WjiLLACE.  125 

"That  was  right!"  echoed  Ann. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  that  girl !"  said 
George  Gray. 

*'  J  think  we  have  some  good  girls  among  us,"* 
said  Henry  Jackson,  with  a  kind  look  at  his  cousin 
Ann. 

"  True,"  said  the  grandmother,  who  noticed 
and  applauded  that  look,  "  very  true  ;  though  few 
persons  may  be  so  situated  as  to  perform  hrilliant 
actions,  yet  all  may  have  opportunity  to  do  many 
good  ones.  We  cannot  tell  what  miglit  le  done 
by  what  is  done  ;  but  we  must  believe  that  a  truly 
generous  and  virtuous  heart  will  act  nobly  in  all 
situations. 

"  But  to  return  to  Mary.  She  rose  and  dressed 
herself  very  quickly;  and  wrapping  a  little  blan- 
ket about  her,  she  fell  on  her  knees  a  moment, 
and  prayed  God  to  keep  her  from  all  harm,  and 
to  forgive  her  for  leaving  the  house  without  her 
parents'  knowledge  ;  for  Mary  was  a  very  obe- 
dient and  faithful  child  \  and  this  was  the  first 
lime  she  had  ever  done  any  important  thing  with- 
out the  consent  and  approbation  of  her  parents. 
She  opened  a  door  which  led  from  her  little  room 
mto  a  narrow  entry,  and  passed,  without  observa- 
lion,  into  the  open  air.     The  moon  was  nearly  at 

11* 


126  MARY    WALLACE. 

tne  full.  Heavy  and  rich  masses  of  clouds  were 
continually  floating  over  its  surface,  and,  some- 
times, almost  obscuring  its  light ;  but  then  they 
would  pass  away,  and  the  moon  would  shine  out 
brighter  than  before  ;  and  the  waters  of  the  river 
flashed  like  diamonds  ;  and  all  the  leaves  of  the 
wilderness,  as  they  waved  in  the  stirring  wind, 
shone  as  if  they  had  been  dipped  in  molten  silver. 
Mary  clapped  her  little  hands  and  forgot  to  be 
afraid,  for  her  spirit  was  worshipping  that  God 
who  maketh  night  so  very  glorious. 

"  And  now  let  me  tell  you,  my  children,  a  good 
child  never  need  be  afraid  in  the  darkness  more 
than  in  the  open  day ;  for,  as  the  Scriptures  say, 

*  He  knoweth  all  the  lambs  of  his  fold  ;'  and  again, 

*  A  sparrow  falleth  not  to  the  ground  without  his 
knowledge.' 

"  The  way  was  familiar  to  Mary,  and  soon  she 
came  to  the  rock  where  she  had  left  Anawon. 
When  her  steps  were  heard,  the  old  chief  started 
to  his  feet  and  uttered  a  low  cry,  and,  directly, 
seveial  Indians  stood  by  his  side.  Mary  was 
not  afraid,  even  then  ;  for  though  the  Indians 
were  the  enemies  of  her  nation  and  her  kindred, 
they  were  not  her  enemies  —  they  were  her 
friends  :  for  there  was  hardly  one  among  thein 


MARy    WALLACE.  127 

who  had  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the  kind- 
ness of  the  sweet  child.  So  she  walked  directly 
into  the  midst,  fearless  of  the  tomahawks  that  were 
lifted  at  her  approach,  and  holding  up  her  little 
liand  to  Anawon,  said,  in  her  low,  sweet  voice, 
*  Father — fly — thy  enemy  is  at  hand  !' 

"  The  old  Indian  seemed,  at  first,  almost 
choked  with  emotion  ;  for  he  well  knew  that 
his  enemies  were  the  friends  of  Mary ;  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  child's  head  as  she  bent 
before  him,  he  only  said,  '  The  God  of  the  white 
man  and  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Indian  be  with 
thee !'  and  his  followers,  who,  from  the  moment 
she  was  known,  had  fallen  back  from  the  centre 
of  the  rock,  as  they  leaned  upon  their  bows  and 
looked  upon  the  child,  repeated,  at  once,  a  word 
in  the  Indian  tongue,  which  was  as  much  as  to 
say,  '  Amen.' 

"  Then  Anawon  unbound  a  wampum  bracelet 
from  his  arm,  and  giving  it  to  Mary,  said,  '  Daugh- 
ter! in  the  hour  of  sorrow  bring  this  to  Anawon ; 
and  ask  what  thou  wilt,  and  it  shall  not  be  denied 
thee !'  • 

'■'■  Then  Namoina  (whom  we  will  henceforth 
call  Rachel)  took  the  child  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
her,  and  wrapped  her  little  blanket  about  her ; 


128  MARY    WALLACE. 

and  Mary  ran  swiftly  toward  honne.  She 
reached  her  room  in  safety,  and  soon  she  fell 
asleep,  for  she  was  very  tired.  Soon  after  this 
Mrs.  Gray  came  into  the  room,  and  saw  that  Mary 
was  asleep,  and  that  her  pillow  was  wet  with 
tears  ;  she  could  not  think  what  had  caused  them, 
for  she  had  never  known  Mary  to  be  very  un- 
happy. Just  at  this  moment  William  came  in  on 
tiptoe  ;  and,  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  his  sister's 
cheek,  he  saw  the  bracelet,  which  had  fallen  to 
the  floor,  and  examining  it  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  he  thought  he  had  seen  it  before  ;  and 
taking  it  to  his  father,  Mr.  Gray  said  that  he  re- 
membered it  very  well,  for  he  had  seen  it  on  the 
arm  of  Anawon. 

"  'I  will  wake  Mary  instantly,'  said  William, 
'  and  perhaps  she  can  tell  us  where  he  is ;  and 
we  will  have  the  cunning  old  savage  before 
morning !' 

"  '  Thou  art  much  too  hasty,'  said  Mr.  Gray, 
laying  a  hand  on  his  son's  arm  ;  '  this  token  was 
given  to  thy  sister  in  peace  and  love.  Thou 
knowest  boy,'  he  continued,  with  difficulty  re- 
straining his  son,  '  thou  knowest  the  child's  heart 
would  be  broken,  if  she  were  obliged,  in  anyway, 
to  be   made   an   instrument  of  evil.     Alas!'   he 


MARY    WALLACE.  129 

added,  giving  way  to  the  natural  tenoerness  of 
his  heart,  '  alas !  that  \ye  are  compelled,  by  cruel 
necessity,  to  slay,  ay,  murder  each  other!'  and 
Simon  Gray  folded  his  dark,  bony  hands  upon  his 
breast  and  was  silent. 

"  Observing  the  boy  still  unsatisfied,  he  said, 
<  Go  to  thy  rest,  my  son  ;  the  Lord  in  his  own  good 
time  will  do  the  work.  At  all  events,  if  1  can 
prevent  it,  blood  shall  never  fall  upon  the  head  of 
Mary.' 

"  The  next  morning  by  dav/n  of  day,  father  and 
son  departed.  Mary  was  not  awake,  for  she 
had' been  so  tired  that  she  slept  very  soundly; 
and  William  was  just  allowed  to  kiss  her  cheek 
very  softly,  and  deposite  by  her  side  some  little 
baskets  of  willow ;  and  he  then  embraced  his 
weeping  mother  and  hastened  to  join  his  father, 
who  already  stood  by  the  gate  waiting  for  him. 

"When  Mary  awoke,  she  was  so  much  disap=. 
pointed  because  they  were  gone,  that  she  could 
hardly  keep  from  crying ;  but  she  saw  that  her 
mother  was  striving  to  be  cheerful,  so  she  wiped 
the  few  tears  that  fell  upon  her  cheek,  and  fold- 
ing her  arms  round  her  nedc,  she  whispered  softly, 
'  Let  us  pray  to  God,  mother,  and  he  will  com- 
fort us.'  And  they  both  knelt  down  and  prayed, 
I 


30  MARY    WALLACE. 

and  when  they  rose  up  they  were  quite  calm ;  foi 
God  never  withholds  a  blessing  from  those  who 
seek  in  humility  of  soul,  and  never  withdraws 
his  countenance  from  those  who  trust  in  him. 
And  now,  my  children,  [  beg  you  to  remember, 
whatever  may  be  your  ';rials  and  distresses,  al- 
ways to  put  your  trust  in  God,  and  nothing  will 
have  power  to  harm  you ;  but  do  not  think,  my 
children,  that  you  must  wait  till  distresses  come — 
seek  the  love  of  God  in  the  day  of  joy — and  in 
ihe  hour  of  sorrow  he  will  not  be  far  off. 

"  But  to  return  to  my  story.  Two  months  had 
passed  away  and  Mr.  Gray  and  William  had  not 
returned,  though  Mrs.  Gray  had  heard  from  them 
occasionally. 

"  It  was  a  bright  afternoon  in  September,^and 
Mary  had  taken  her  knitting- work  and  was  sitting 
beside  her  mother's  arm-chair  at  the  door  of  their 
cottage ;  but  she  could  not  work,  for  her  eyes 
were  continually  wandering  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  Seekonk  road  ;  and,  at  every  waving  of  the 
trees,  or  the  least  unusual  sound,  she  would  start 
from  her  scat,  and  say,  '  They  are  coming !'  and 
then  run  to  make  some  addition,  or  alteration,  to 
the  furniture  of  a  small  round  table,  white  as  snow 
which  was  spread  with  bowls  and  spoons,  brown 


MARY    WALLACE.  131 

bread  and  baked  apples,  and  a  pan  of  new  milk ; 
and  then,  returning  to  the  door,  s.ie  would  expect 
to  find  them  near ;  but  when  she  looked  in  every 
direction,  she  saw  only  the  few  quiet  looking 
houses  of  the  Plantation — the  wide  and  almost 
unbroken  forest,  and  the  broad  road  before  her — 
but  no  father  or  brother.  She  had  repeated  this 
act  several  times,  and  at  each  successive  one 
she  was  more  sure  that  they  were  coming  ;  until, 
at  last,  the  continued  disappointment  was  more 
than  she  could  bear ;  and,  clinging  round  her 
mother's  neck,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Mr.  Gray  and  William  had  sent  word,  by 
some  men  belonging  to  the  town,  that  they  should 
be  at  home  the  night  before,  and  they  had  not 
come.  Might  not  some  terrible  accident  have 
happened  ? 

"  Mrs.  Gray  had  been  sitting  silently,  with  her 
arms  folded  upon  her  breast,  struggling  within 
herself  to  bear  the  approaching  trial  as  became  a 
Christian;  for  she  knew  better  than  Mary  did 
how  full  of  disappointment  life  is,  and  she  knew 
also  that  the  "imes  were  peculiarly  uncertain  and 
hazardous.  She  had  appeared  calm,  notwith- 
standing, for  she  did  not  wish  to  check  the  fond 
anticipations  of  Mary ;    but  when   she  saw  that 


132  MARY    WALLACE. 

even  she  could  not  hope  any  longer — when  she 
felt  the  sweet  child  weeping  upon  her  breast,  for 
an  instant  her  calmness  forsook  her,  and  she  wept 
with  Mary. 

•' '  Do  you  believe,  mother,  they  will  not  come  V 
sobbed  the  child ;  '  do  you  believe  they  will  not 
come  to-nig-ht  V  And  shakinsf  awav  the  curls  from 
her  face,  and  a  flood  of  tears  with  them,  she 
looked  upon  her  mother  as  if  she  would  read  her 
thoughts  before  she  spoke. 

"  '  They  will  come,  my  child,'  said  Mrs.  Gray, 
speaking  with  much  difficulty;  'they  will  come 
when  it  is  God's  pleasure ;'  and  putting  the  child 
from  her  arms,  she  went  to  her  room  and  shut 
herself  in,  for  her  distress  was  so  great  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  have  Mary  see  it. 

"  The  child,  being  left  to  herself,  wept  without 
restraint :  but  still  she  did  not  actually  believe 
that  her  father  and  brother  would  not  come  very 
soon,  and  she  dried  her  tears  and  thought  she 
would  run  out  a  little  way  on  the  Sfeekonk  road, 
and  perhaps  she  might  meet  them.  When  she 
had  got  a  little  way  from  the  house  she  saw  a 
person  approaching,  and  she  hastened  along, 
hoping  to  hear  something  of  her  father  and 
brother ;  and  when  she  got  near  she  saw  it  was 


MARY  WALLACE.  133 

Rachel.  Mary  was  very  glad,  for  she  had  noi 
seen  Rachel  for  a  long  time,  and  she  knew 
the  Indian  woman  was  a  good  friend  to  her, 
so  she  ran  toward  her  and  put  her  little  arms 
around  her;  but  her  heart  was  so  full  she 
could  not  speak.  Rachel  did  not  know  her  at 
first ;  but  when  she  saw  that  it  was  Mary,  she 
held  her  in  her  arms,  repeating,  all  the  while, 
some  words  in  the  Indian  tongue,  which  Mary 
knew  were  a  kind  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Great 
Spirit. 

" '  Child,  I  was  seeking  thee  !'  she  said,  at  last, 
in  imperfect  English ;  '  I  have  bad  news — thy 
brother  is  fallen  among  his  enemies !' 

"  '  Will  not  my  brother  come  home  V  said  the 
child,  bursting  into  tears ;  '  will  he  never  come 
home  ?     Is  he  dead  V 

"'He  is  yet  alive,'  replied  Rachel,  *  but  nis 
hours  are  counted.     This  night  he  is  to  die !" 

\'  *  Where  is  he  ?  Let  me  go  to  him  !'  said  the 
child. 

" '  It  was  for  that  very  purpose  I  came  to  thee. 
For  thy  sake  he  may  yet  live-r-he  is  in  the  hands 
of  An  a  won.' 

-'  'O,  let  us  go  this  instant !  Let  us  lun!  Lei 
us  fly !'  said  Mary,  seizing  the  hand  of  Rachel ; 

12 


134  MARY  WALLACE. 

and  she  ran  forward  a  few  steps — ^then,  stopp  ng 
short,  she  said, '  I  must  run  back  and  tell  mother ; 
I  cannot  go  without  telling  her !' 

'* '  Thou  must  not  go  back,'  said  Rachel ;  *  let 
her  not  know  his  danger  till  it  is  over — if  thy 
brother  lives,  we  will  return  with  the  earliest 
light ;  if  he  dies,  it  will  be  soon  enough  to  break 
her  heart — as  mine  is  brokei,'  she  added,  beating 
her  breast,  while  her  eyes  shone  like  fire. 

"  '  I  cannot  go,'  sobbed  Mary, '  I  cannot  go  with- 
out telling  mother.' 

"  '  Then  thy  brother  will  die  !'  said  Rachel ; 
*  then  he  will  die — they  are  singing  the  death- 
song  !     The  fire  is  kindling  now  !' 

" '  O  let  us  go  then  !"  said  the  child,  with  a 
piercing  cry,  '  let  us  hurry  !  let  us  go !' 

" '  The  pledge  of  Anawon,  is  it  about  thee, 
child  V  asked  Rachel  ;  and  Mary  drew  from  her 
pocket  the  bracelet  of  the  chief;  and  they  went 
on. 

"  Tneir  way  lay  directly  through  the  woods. 
Mary's  poor,  little,  bare  feet,  were  dreadfully 
scratched  with  the  briers  ;  and  she  was  so  tired 
with  running,  and  hurrying,  and  crying,  that 
sometimes  Rachel  was  obliged  to  take  her  up  and 
carry  her.     At  length  it  grew  very  dark  ;  and,  a< 


MARY  WALLACE.  185 

first,  Mary  could  hardly  tel]  where  to  step;  but 
when  she  got  used  to  it  she  did  not  mind  it  at  all 
— for  she  was  not  thinking  of  herself,  but  of  her 
father,  and  mother,  and  brcther. 

"  After  they  had  gone  several  miles  they  saw  a 
light  at  a  great  distance  :  and,  when  they  came 
near,  they  saw  it  was  a  large  fire — and  when 
they  got  still  nearer,  they  saw  a  great  many  In- 
dians, with  painted  faces  and  tomahawks  in  their 
hands,  dancing  about  it,  singing,  and  shouting, 
and  uttering  terrible  cries. 

"  One  of  the  Indians,  who  was  stationed  to  keep 
watch,  saw  little  Mary  and  her  guide  ;  and  as 
soon  as  he  knew  Rachel  he  shouted  '  Namoina  !' 
And  all  immediately  rested  their  tomahawks  on 
the  ground,  and,  ceasing  to  sing  and  dance,  they 
awaited  her  approach  with  all  the  respect  due  to 
the  daughter  of  so  mighty  a  chief  as  Anawon. 

"  Mary  Wallace  saw  but  one  thing.  As  the 
ring  opened  she  beheld  her  brother  standing  in 
the  midst,  beside  a  large  pile  of  light  fuel,  which 
was  all  ready  to  be  kindled  ;  his  hands  were 
bound  behind  him  and  his  head  was  bent  down. 
Mary  gave  one  spring,  and,  fearing  not  the  terri- 
ble looking  men  around  her,  she  bounded  to  the 
side  of  William;  and   clinging   round  his  neck, 


133  MARY  WALLACE. 

she  sobbed  as  if  her  little  heart  was  breaking. 
William  was  pale  as  death  when  he  saw  Mary. 
A  few  hot  tears  fell  on  his  cheek  ;  but  he  spoke 
not;  he  bowed  his  head  upon  her  neck  awhile — 
and  then  his  heart  was  melted — and  he  sobbed 
aloud.  This  relieved  him,  and  he  whispered, 
'  Sister,  wipe  my  tears  away  and  leave  me — thou 
must  not  see  me  die.' 

" '  Thou  wilt  not  die  !  Thou  shalt  not !'  said 
Mary,  wringing  her  hands ;  and,  losing  all  fear, 
but  that  of  her  brother's  death,  she  ran  wildly 
from  one  to  another  crying  out,  '  Will  my  brothei 
die  ?  must  William  die  V 

"  Anawon,  who  sat  apart  on  a  rock  higher  than 
those  around,  saw  and  heard  the  tumult ;  but  he 
knew  not  its  cause  ;  and,  in  a  deep  and  some- 
what angry  tone  of  voice,  he  gave  orders  for  the 
noise  to  be  hushed,  and  the  awful  ceremonies  of 
death  to  be  resumed.  In  an  instant  the  place 
was  still — and  then  a  low  murmur  ran  among  the 
crowd,  '  The  Child  of  Sunrise  !'— '  The  Bird  of 
Peace!'— 'The  Red  Man's  Friend!'  and  such 
was  the  strong  love  Mary  had  excited  among  the 
Indians,  that,  for  a  moment,  not  a  hand  was  lifted, 
even  at  the  command  of  their  chief — then  slowly 
they  prepared  to  obey. 


MARY    WALLACE.  137 

'*  A.S  Mary's  almost  distracted  features  were 
turned  to  the  glaring  light  of  the  death-fire,  Ana- 
won  saw  her ;  and  the  long,  deep,  agonizing  groan 
he  did  not  try  to  suppress,  told  that  she  was  re- 
cognized. The  next  moment  she  was  at  his  feet. 
The  bracelet  was  clasped  about  his  arm.  '  Father, 
will  he  die !'  was  all  that  she  could  speak ;  and 
poor  little  Mary  fainted  away. 

"  Anawon  took  the  child  in  his  own  arms,  and 
administered  something  which  revived  her ;  and 
when  he  saw  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  again,  he 
wiped  the  heavy  drops  of  sweat  from  his  brow, 
and  gave  orders  for  the  release  of  the  prisoner. 
Mary  was  then  almost  wild  with  joy — and  she 
laughed  and  wept — and  sang  and  danced — and 
ran  from  one  to  another — and  they  feared  she 
would  go  into  fits  ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  she  was 
completely  exhausted  ;  and  Rachel  took  her  in 
her  arms  and  held  her. 

''  William  wanted  to  go  home  immediately,  be- 
cause he  knew  his  parents  would  be  very  much 
distressed  about  their  children.  One  of  the  Indians 
said  he  would  carry  little  Mary  in  his  arms,  and, 
accompanied  by  Rachel,  they  set  out. 

"  It  was  about  sunrise  when  they  came  in 
sight   of  Providence ;    and  just   then   they   met 

12* 


138  MARY    WALLACE. 

Simon  Gray,  at  the  head  of  a  small  band  of  men, 
going  out  in  pursuit  of  his  children.  He  was  very 
much  overcome  at  meeting  them  so  unexpectedly  ; 
and  he  forgot  not  to  fall  on  his  knees  and  bles3 
God  for  their  restoration.  Then  he  embraced 
them  afTectionately,  and  learned  the  particulars 
of  their  escape. 

"  During  this  time  the  men  ran  on  before  to 
the  settlement  and  told  the  news  ;  and  as  they 
entered  the  town  the  people  came  running  out  of 
their  houses,  all  uttering  expressions  of  joy,  and 
blessing  God  for  their  happy  deliverance.  But 
the  mother's  heart  was  most  severely  tried.  She 
had  given  them  up,  and  had  become  almost  calm ; 
but  when  the  news  of  their  safe  return  reached 
her,  her  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  fell  into 
fits ;  and  from  their  effect  she  never  recovered. 
She  lingered,  however,  in  a  weak  state  nearly  a 
year ;  and  then  she  took  an  epidemic  fever  and 
died  ;  and  Mary  Wallace  was  once  more — an 
orphan  ! 

"  During  this  time  the  poor  Indians  were  mostly 
subdued.  King  Philip  was  killed ;  Anawon  was 
taken  by  Captain  Church,  and,  during  the  absence 
of  that  good  man,  was  shamefully  put  to  death. 
Mary  was   much  distressed,   and    refused  to  be 


MARY   WALLACE.  139 

« 

comforted,  when  she  heard  of  the  cruel  death  of 
her  good  old  friend,  (though  William  often  told 
her  that  the  white  people  never  could  be  safe 
while  he  lived,)  and  when  she  was  alone  she 
would  weep  at  thinking  of  it. 

*'  One  day,  a  short  lime  after  her  mother's 
death,  she  went  to  visit  a  friend  about  five  or  six 
miles  from  the  Plantation;  and  in  the  afternoon 
she  walked  out  alone,  thinkinij  she  would  so  and 
see  the  rock  where  Philip  and  his  men  had  once 
concealed  themselves.  She  soon  found  the  place  ; 
for  the  main  rock,  which  the  Indians  called  Quins- 
riiket,  or  Rock-house,  was  larger  than,  and  differ- 
ent  from,  all  others  around.  This  rock  projects 
over  to  the  southwest,  and  under  that  side  of  it  the 
Indians  had  found  a  home.  Mary  went  there  and 
examined  the  place,  and  she  found  a  great  many 
arrow-spikes  made  of  flint,  and  some  pieces  of 
wampum ;  and  the  ashes  of  their  fires  were  still 
visible.  She  then  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  rock, 
and  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a  tall  sugar- 
maple  ;  and  there  she  could  not  help  thinking  how 
cruel  it  was  for  the  poor  Indians  to  be  killed  or 
driven  from  their  lands,  and  their  houses,  and  their 
fathers'  graves. 

"  As  she  was  returning,  a  little  way  from  Quins- 


140  MARY    WALLACE. 

niket,  she  saw  a  woman  sitting  on  a  flat  stone, 
in  the  midst  of  a  square  where  the  earth  seemed 
to  have  been  blackened  with  fire,  and  where  the 
grass  had  never  since  grown.  When  Mary  came 
nearer,  she  saw  that  it  was  Rachel.  Overjoyed, 
she  was  just  going  to  spring  to  her  arms,  for  she 
had  not  seen  her  friend  since  the  morning  of  her 
brother's  release,  when  she  saw  the  poor  creature 
was  Weeping.  As  soon  as  Rachel  saw  Mary,  she 
hid  her  head  in  her  blanket.  The  child  looked 
at  her  a  moment  sorrowfully,  then  springing  to 
her  lap  she  folded  her  little  arms  round  her  neck, 
and  putting  her  soft  cheek  close  to  hers,  wept  with 
her.  This  act  of  tenderness  softened  Rachel  ;  and 
wiping  away  her  own  tears  with  a  corner  of  her 
blanket,  she  held  up  the  child  aud  gazed  mourn- 
fully upon  her  face ;  then  she  said,  '  Weep  on, 
my  daughter !  weep  on  ! — for  thy  tears  are  cool 
and  pleasant ;  but  mine — O !  they  are  drops  of 
fire  !'  Then  she  spoke  of  her  father's  death  and 
the  downfall  of  her  race,  till  her  voice  was  choked 
— and  she  wept  like  a  heart-broken  child.  Again 
she  was  silent,  and  began  to  pluck  the  blades  of 
grass  and  weave  them  into  basket-work,  keeping 
her  face  all  the  while  turned  from  Mary. 

"  Suddenly   she    looked    upon    the    child,    and 


MARY    WALLACE.  141 

exclaimed,  with  much  energy,  '  Here — here  I  on 
this  very  spot  'twas  done  !' 

u  i  What,  mother  ?  what  was  done  V  asked 
Mary,  wich  a  trembling  voice. 

"  '  My  babe — my  babe  !'  Rachel  could  say  no 
more  for  an  instant ;  and  then  she  added,  '  I  will 
tell  thee  :  Namoina  was  the  daughter  of  a  mighty 
chief;  many  chiefs  sought  her  in  marriage — but 
she  said,  "  No  !"  for  her  heart  beat  quick  only  at 
the  step  of  Mohaton  the  brave.  Anawon,  the 
great  chief,  said,  "  Go !"  and  Namoina  took  the 
hand  of  Mohaton,  and  went  from  her  father.  We 
had  one  babe — it  was  beautiful  and  dear — and 
it  went  as  quick  from  my  arms  as  the  blossom 
from  the  corn-leaf.  The  white  man  came — Mo- 
haton fell  by  our  own  door !  and  my  babe — they 
trod  upon  it !  It  saw  me — it  tried  to  lift  its  little 
arms — it  tried  to  open  its  little  eyes — it  could 
not.  I  took  it  in  my  arms — it  was  cold — still — 
dead.  I  saw  not  that  all  my  brethren  had  gone — 
I  saw  not  that  I  was  alone.  I  held  my  little  one 
till  night  came  and  made  everything  as  dark  and 
cold  as  my  own  bosom,  and  then  I  laid  it  in  the 
ground — here !'  As  she  spoke  she  stretched  out 
her  handj  and  rested  it  an  instant  on  a  little 
mound  beside  her;   then  she  stretched  out  her 


142  MARY    WALLACE. 

arms  and  fell  upon  it,  and  wept  and  groaned  fear, 
fully. 

"  After  a  short  time  she  arose,  and  dashing  the 
tears  away  from  her  cheek,  she  became  terribly 
calm,  and  continued  :  *  '  At  last  the  hope  of  ven- 
geance possessed  me.  I  rose  from- this  grave  and 
vowed  to  kill  the  first  white  child  I  could  find. 
I  found  thee,  my  child — I  brought  thee  here — to 
the  very  spot  where  my  own  darling  bled ;  but 
thy  smile  was  so  sweet — thy  voice  was  so  soft 
and  pitiful — thy  little  arms  clung  around  my  neck 
so  tenderly,  I  could  not  kill  thee ;  and  the  spirit 
of  my  little  one  whispered  to  me  constantly,  "  Let 
Mary  lie  in  thy  bosom  and  warm  it  again  !"  So 
I  kept  thee,  and  when  three  moons  ■]■  were  gone, 
it  was  cold,  and  thy  little  limbs  trembled,  and  thy 
cheek  was  blue.  I  saw  that  the  child  of  the 
Pale-face  should  not  dwell  in  the  wilderness.  I 
gave  thee  meal  and  corn ;  but  the  food  of  the 
red  babe  was  not  for  thee.  I  was  afraid  that 
thou  too  wouldst  die.  I  sought  thy  mother  to 
give  thee  up.     She   had  gone,  with  her  broken 

*  The  Indians  believe  that,  when  they  have  a  friend  mur- 
dered, the  soul  of  that  friend  cannot  rest  till  they  have  avenged 
ihe  death  by  killing  the  murderer  or  some  of  his  connections. 

t  Months. 


MARY    WALLACE. 


143 


heart,  over  the  great  waters.*  Namoina  knew 
how  to  pity  her.  Thy  father  was  slain  in  battle. 
She  was  a  motherless  widow.  On  my  way  back 
Simon  Gray  found  me  ;  and  when  I  saw  thee 
among  thy  own  people,  I  could  not  take  thee 
away.  Thy  smile  was  as  the  sunlight  to  me— 
thou  wert  the  only  thing  that  made  life  pleasant, 
and  yet  I  left  thee.'  She  paused,  and  Mary  hid 
her  face  in  the  faithful  creature's  bosom  and  wept 
without  restraint. 

"  Ao-ain  she  resumed — '  The  mother  I  found  thee 
is  gone,  and  now  I  will  give  thee  back  the  other — 
thv  own !' 

«  '  Where  ?  where  V  asked  Mary,  lifting  her 
hands  quickly.     '  Where  is  my  mother  V 

"  '  Be  patient,  and  I  will  tell  thee.  Go  to  See- 
konk  on  the  next  day  thy  people  meet  to  worship 
the  Great  Spirit — I  have  promised  to  send  thee — 
she  will  be  there ;  a  tall  woman,  and  slender  and 
graceful  as  a  reed  upon  the  hill-side.  Her  brow 
is  fair  as  the  coming  of  light,  fair  as  thy  own,  my 
child;  and  her  dark  hair  falleth  over  it  as  the 
shadows  of  evening  upon  snow.  There  she  is,' 
continued  Rachel,  taking  a  small  miniature  from 

•  The  ocean. 


144  MARY    WALLACh. 

her  own  neck,  and  giving  it  to  Mary,  '  some  cm  • 
ning*  man  of  thy  people  hath  put  her  face  here ; 
but  not  all.  The  kind  look,  and  the  tears,  and 
the  sorrow  are  not  here  !' 

"  Mary  took  the  picture  and  looked  upon  it, 
and  kissed  it,  and  thanked  God  that  again  she 
was  not  an  orphan — that  again  she  Avas  to  find  a 
mother, 

*'  '  Go,'  continued  Rachel,  '  remember  all  I  have 
told  thee ;  observe  the  scar  over  her  left  eye. 
She  will  know  thee  by  thy  little  playthings — 
by  thy  sweet  voice,  and  by  thy  father's  soft  blue 
eye.'  As  she  spoke  she  gave  some  little  toys  to 
Mary,  and  then,  motioning  her  away,  she  added, 
in  a  thick  and  tremulous  voice,  '  now  go,  and  let 
Namoina — die  !' 

"  '  Die  !'  repeated  Mary,  '  Die !  what  can  my 
mother  mean  V 

*'  'Come  hither,  child,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
and  thou  wilt  know  what  I  mean.  Thrice  hath 
the  sun  risen  and  set  since  food  hath  passed  the 
lips  of  Namoina ;  and  when  she  eateth  again,  it 
will  be  among  her  fathers  in  the  hunting-grounds 
afar  off. 

*  Ingenious 


MARY    WALLACE.  145 

"  '  I  will  bring  thee  food  and  drink ;  I  will  go 
now,'  said  Mary,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  '  Go,  but  come  not  again  !  go,  and  return  not ! 
Namoina  will  find  it  hard  to  die  while  the  eye  of 
her  nursling  is  upon  her.' 

"  Mary  sprang  back  again  to  the  side  of  RacheL 
'  O,  my  mother !'  she  said,  '  thy  hands  are  cold, 
and  thy  brow — what  shall  I  do  for  thee  ?  .  What 
shall  I  do  V 

"  *  If  thou  wilt  not  go,  sit  down  at  my  feet  and 
listen  to  my  death-song ;  but  touch  me  not — 
speak  not,  or  the  soul  of  Namoina  will  be  a  cow- 
ard and  refuse  to  die.' 

"  Mary  fell,  rather  than  sat,  down  at  the  poor 
creature's  feet,  and  listened  to  her  with  a  bursting 
heart.  I  will  repeat  the  song  to  you,  not  exactly 
as  it  was  chanted  by  Namoina,  but  as  it  has  since 
been  put  into  verse.  It  still,  however,  retains  its 
original  spirit  and  meaning. 

THF    DEATH-SONG    OF    NAMOINA. 

^I  hear  the  voices  of  the  brave  from  yonder  fair 

southwest — 
They  welcome  poor  Namoina  unto  her  place  of 

rest. 

K  13 


]  46  -f  AEY  WALLACE. 

The  hills  are  glad  with  living  things — the  valleys 

bright  with  corn, 
Beyond  the  beautiful  blue  sky  where  all  the  brave 

are  gone. 

'  The  earth  is  cold — the  hills  are  lone — the  pleas- 
ant places  sad, 

And  evervthin<T  is  desolate  that  once  could  make 
me  glad. 

The  white  man's  corn  is  growing  now  upon  our 
fathers'  graves — 

And  Cowtantowit's*  children  flee  unto  the  western 
waves ' 

'  'Tis  time  Namoina  should  go — she  cannot  longer 

stay— 
For  as  the  rainbow  from  the  cloud  her  tribe  hath 

passed  away ; 
Her  heart  is  throbbing  at  thy  voice,  O  wait  thee, 

Mohaton ! 
She  hears  her  father,  too — the  brave,  the  mighty 

Anawon  ; 
She  hears  her  little  baby's  voice,  soft  as  the  wind 

ai  even — 

*  The  Indian's  god. 


MARY  WALLACE.  147 

And  all  lier  bretl  ren  beckon  her  unto  the  far-off 
heaven ! 

'Child  of  the  Rising-sun!*  my  Flower  !  Namoina 

cannot  stay ; 
For  all  the  voices  of  her  tribe  are^  calling  her 

away. 
But  one  tear  falleth  on  her  cheek — it  is  to  leave 

thee  now 
Within  a  world  whose  fearful  blight  may  gather 

round  thy  brow — 
But  at  the  coming  of  thy  steps  may  pahi  forever 

flee ; 
And  He  thy  fathers  worship,  prove  a  way  of  light 

to  thee. 

*  My  native  hills!  and   vales!  and  streams!  ye 

will  not  be  less  bright 
"When  poor  Namoina  hath  gone  unto  the  realms 

of  light ! 
But   stranger    voices    even    now   your    sweetest 

echoes  wake, 
And  stranger  hands  will  spoil  you  all !  O  haste  my 

heart  and  break ! 

•  The  Indian's  call  the  white  people  the  children  of  sun. 
rise,  because  they  came  from  the  east 


148  MARY  WALLACE. 

'  I  never  knew,  till  this  dark  hour,  je  weie  so  very 

dear  ! 
But,  ah  !  why  do  I  linger  so  ?  my  brethren  are 

not  here ! 
The  bosom  now  is  desolate  where  sun-light  used 

to  dwell — 
'Tis  getting  cold  !  my  burning  eye — 'Tis  dark ! 

O  !  Fare  ye  well !' 

"  Her  voice  died  away  gently,  till  only  a  low 
murmur  was  audible.  The  setting  sun  flashed  a 
moment  over  her  features,  and  as  it  faded  away, 
they  turned  to  a  livid  hue.  She  looked  earnestly 
at  Mary,  as  if  she  would  speak  ;  her  lips  quivered 
in  the  attempt  just  once ;  her  head  sank  upon 
her  bosom  ;  and  when  Mary  threw  her  arms  about 
her,  she  knew,  by  the  chill,  that  poor  Namoina 
was  dead. 

"  The  child  sat  down  again  at  Namoina's  feet 
and  hid  her  face  in  her  lap,  and  sobbed  and  wept 
passionately.  And  there  she  sat  till  it  was  almost 
dark ;  and  there  her  friends,  who,  alarmed  at  her 
absence,  went  in  search  of  her,  found  her. 

"They  removed  the  body  to  the  house,  and 
Mary  watched  by  it  through  the  night ;  and  the 
nexi   day    poor   Namoina   was   decently   buried. 


MARY  WALLACE.  149 

Her  funeral  was  respectably  attended,  and   Mary 
mourned  lor  her. 

"  But  the  child  was  now  awakened  to  new 
hopes ;  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  her 
mother.  She  was  longing  to  see  her,  and  yet  she 
was  almost  afraid ;  for  she  had  loved  her  adopted 
mother  so  dearly  she  thought  she  could  not,  per- 
haps, like  her  own  mother  as  well ;  and  the 
thought  was  distressing  to  her.  But,  between 
the  different  agitations  of  hope  and  fear,  the  two 
days  that  remained  between  the  burial  of  her 
Indian  friend  and  the  Sabbath,  seemed  to  her  the 
longest  days  she  had  ever  known.  Shejiad  beg- 
ged her  father's  permission  for  William  to  take 
her  to  Seekonk  on  the  next  Sabbath,  and  he  had 
willingly  granted  her  request ;  but  she  said  nothing 
of  her  hopes  to  her  father  or  brother,  from  a  deli- 
cate regard  for  their  feelings,  because,  at  the  best, 
she  knew  it  would  distress  them.  They  and  the 
dear  departed  one  who  had  nursed  and  loved  her 
from  infancy,  had  been  so  long  all-in-all  to  her, 
that  her  heart  was  rel\ictant,  even  in  secrecy,  to 
cherish  a  hope  independent  of  them.  Then  poor 
Mary  was  perplexed  by  a  thousand  fears ;  she 
thought  that  it  might  rain — or  that  her  mother 
miglit  be  sick — or  that  tliere  might  be  some  mis- 


150  MAEY  WALLACE 

understanding — or  that,  perhaps,  the  whole  wag 
but  a  raving  fancy  of  Namoina — or  if  the  whole 
was  true,  (and  this  Mary  firmly  believed  when 
she  looked  in  love  upon  the  sweet  features  that 
never  left  her  bosom,  but  to  be  kissed  and  wept 
upon,)  a  thousand  unthought  of  difficulties  might 
occur.  In  short,  her  fears,  and  doubts,  and  anxie. 
ties,  were  innumerable.  She  could  neither  take 
food  or  rest,  nor  attend  steadily  to  her  daily  oc- 
cupations ;  and  she  kept  by  herself  as  much  as 
possible,  and  spent  most  of  her  time  in  prayer. 

"  At  last  the  Sabbath  came.  It  was  a  beauti- 
ful October  morning.  The  sun  went  up  gloriously 
and  melted  away  the  bright  frost  from  the  foliage  ; 
and  the  forest — you  have  seen  our  woods  in  the 
autumn,  children,  and  you  know  how  beautiful 
they  are  when  the  frost  has  turned  the  leaves." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ann,  "  and  do  you  remember  the 
lines  upon  '  Autumn,'  you  gave  me  the  other  day, 
where  the  sweet  poet  we  love  so  dearly,  com- 
pares our  autumn  foliage  to  '  a  flood  of  molten 
rainbows  V  A  beautiful  thought — is  it  not,  grand- 
mother ?" 

"True,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Gray,  turning  an 
affectionate  glance  to  the  bright  eyes  that  were 
lifted  up;  'but  your  brother  and  cousins,  I  see, 


MARY  WALLACE.  151 

are  iiK-re  interested  about  the  fate  of  Mary,  than 
the  beauties  of  autumn.' 

"  I  said  it  was  a  lovely  morning,  and  Mary 
would  have  thought  so  too  at  any  other  time  ;  for 
not  even  you,  my  dear  Ann,  have  more  poetry  in 
your  heart,  than  Mary  Wallace  had.  Her  taste 
was  not  cultivated,  it  is  true;  but  the  God  of 
nature  had  dealt  bountifully  by  her.  She  never 
looked  on  the  beauties  of  creation  without  behold- 
ing the  Creator ;  and  this  spirit  is  one  of  the  high- 
est and  richest  sources  of  poetry. 

"  But,  as  I  said,  or  was  going  to  say,  her  mind 
this  morning  was  full  of  other  thoughts  ;  and  she 
could  hardly  have  told  even  what  season  of  the 
year  it  was,  though  she  loved  the  autumn  dearly, 
and  its  beauties  were  never  before  unmarked. 

"  She  counted  the  toys  Namoina  had  given  her 
over  and  over  again,  that  she  might  be  sure  they 
were  all  there ;  and  then  she  put  them  into  a 
little  bag  with  a  medal  she  had  worn  in  infancy ; 
and  before  William  had  begun  to  dress,  or  the 
horse  was  brought  to  the  door,  she  was  quite 
ready  and  waiting  for  him  in  the  passage.  She 
thought  William  had  never  been  so  long  in  dress- 
ing  before ;  and  she  ke'pt  calling  to  him,  and  hurry- 
ing him.     Her  father,  wondering  at  her  unusual 


152  MARY  WALLACE. 

impatience,  stepped  into  the  passage  with  8 
thought  to  chide  her ;  but  she  stood  there — such  a 
beautiful,  bright  creature,  that  he  could  not ;  and 
he  paused  and  looked  upon  her  in  silence.  The 
excitement  of  her  hopes  had  risen  from  her  lieart 
to  her  face ;  the  maple  leaf  was  not  richer  than 
the  bloom  upon  her  cheek,  or  the  sun-light  brighter 
than  the  flashing  of  her  eye.  A  short  green  man- 
tle hung  from  her  shoulders,  and  her  light,  strav» 
grassy  bonnet  could  not  hide  the  luxury  of  he/ 
brown  hair. 

"  As  she  lifted  her  head  at  the  sound  of  foot 
steps,  the  golden  curls  swept  back  from  her  face, 
and  as  she  looked  upon  her  father  her  eye  filled 
with  tears  ;  and  there  was  something  in  it  that 
made  the  heart  of  Simon  Gray  tremble.  IMary 
sprang  to  his  arms  and  clinging  round  his  neck, 
wept ;  for  she  thought  it  was  almost  wrong  to 
seek  another  parent  when  she  already  had  one 
who  loved  her  so  very  tenderly.  But  at  the  sound 
of  William's  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  she  kissed 
her  father,  and,  wiping  away  her  tears,  w-as  all 
bloom  and  hope  again ;  and  William  could  net 
help  pausing  to  look  at  her,  ere  he  bounded  to  the 
saddle;  and  he  thought  she  had  never  been  so 
beautiful    before.      But    Mary   trembled   bo    she 


MARY   WALLACE.  153 

could  not  spring  up  behind  him  as  usual;  her 
father  was  obliged  to  lift  her ;  and  when  he  felt 
how  she  trembled,  he  feared  she  was  ill,  and 
asked  her  to  stay  at  home  and  not  go  to  the  meet- 
ing ;  but  Mary  assured  him  she  was  perfectly 
well ;  so  the  kind-hearted  man  could  make  no 
other  objection,  and  they  rode  off. 

"  They  arrived  at  the  meeting-house  before  any 
others ;  and  as  the  people  began  to  gather  to  the 
house,  Mary  trembled  so  she  could  hardly  keep 
her  seat. 

"  One  after  another  came  in — one  after  another 
was  examined ;  but  poor  Mary  could  not  think 
any  one  of  them  was  her  mother.  At  last  a  lady 
came  and  sat  nearly  opposite  Mary.  The  child's 
heart  bounded ;  she  saw  the  same  dark  hair  and 
eye — the  same  white  brow — but,  O !  it  had  no 
scar  ! — and  tears  of  disappointment  filled  her  eyes. 
Another  came ;  she  was  tall  and  graceful ;  she 
had  dark  hair  and  eyes,  and  a  very  fair  brow. 
'  That  is  the  one  !  That  is  my  mother  !'  thought 
Mary,  and  she  was  just  going  to  throw  herself 
into  her  arms  and  call  her  mother,  when  the  lady 
—who  probably  thought  Mary  very  rude  for  star- 
ing  at  her  so  fixedly — ^turned  quickly  away  with 
such   an   angry  expression  of  countenance,  that 


154  MARY    WALLACE. 

the  child  could  hardly  restrain  her  tears  ;  and 
then  the  idea  that  the  lady  might  be  her  mother, 
made  her  tremble.  Others  came,  and  were,  in 
turn,  examined ;  but  not  one  of  them  could  be 
compared  with  the  picture  she  held  in  her  hand — 
the  description  given  by  Namoina — or  the  image 
in  the  heart  of  Mary.  The  poor  child  was  doom- 
ed  to  be  disappointed ;  and  she  sat  down,  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and  thought  she 
would  never  hope  again. 

"  A  low  murmur,  as  of  one  in  prayer,  reached 
her  ear.  She  lifted  her  eyes,  almost  unwillingly, 
and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  she  saw  a 
lady  in  deep  mourning,  kneeling  before  one  of  the 
rough  benches,  in  prayer.  The  garb  of  outward 
grief  was  an  unwonted  sight  there,  and  every  eye 
was  turned  upon  her.  Yet  there  was  a  kindly 
expression  in  every  face,  for  the  people,  although 
(heir  own  simple  creed  and  rigid  habits  forbade 
the  use  of  a  peculiar  garment  as  a  sign  of  wo, 
could  not  help  respecting  the  piety  of  the  stranger. 
Mary's  heart  beat  wildly  at  the  first  glance,  and 
she  turned  very  pale,  and  then  again  her  face  was 
flushed  with  the  fever  of  excited  feelings.  After 
kneeling  a  short  time,  the  stranger  slowly  rose, 
and  turned  round  upon  the  little  assembly  with  a 


MARY   WALLACE.  155 

melancholy,  listless  air.  As  she  did  so  her  face 
turned  full  in  Mary's  view ;  it  was  pale,  and  ten- 
der, and  sorrowful.  The  child  became,  at  once, 
convinced  that  her  search  was  ended  ;  in  that  one 
glance  she  had  seen  all ;  the  tall  and  graceful 
form — the  dark  glossy  hair — the  fair,  pale  brow — 
the  scar — the  resemblance  to  the  picture — all  that 
she  sought  was  there.  She  forgot  every  thing  but 
that  she  had  found  her  long-lost  parent ;  she  flew 
along  the  narrow  aisle,  and  when  she  reached  the 
lady  just  whispered,  '  Mother  !'  and  fell  into  her 
arms.     The  child  had  fainted. 

"  The  strange  lady  seemed  as  much  overcome 
as  Mary.  She  held  her  closely  embraced  in  her 
arms,  and  gazed  eagerly  upon  her  pallid  features. 
It  chanced  at  this  moment  that  the  miniature  fell 
from  Mary's  bosom,  and  the  medal  on  which  was 
engraved  her  name.  The  stranger  looked  upon 
them  and  uttered  a  faint  scream ;  then  she  clasp- 
ed the  child  close  to  her  heart ;  and  when  Mary 
opened  her  blue  eyes  and  smiled  upon  her,  she 
cried  out,  '  I  know  thee  now,  my  daughter  ! — my 
own  beloved  dauo^hter !' 

"  The  whole  congregation  had  gathered  round 
with  wondering  looks  and  curious  faces ;  and 
even  the  good  minister  himself,  instead  of  going 


156  MARY   WALLACE. 

to  his  desk,  mingled  with  the  crowd,  and  scorned 
to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  scene. 

"  There  was  one  powerfully  interested ;  Wil- 
liam had  followed  Mary  from  her  seat,  wondering 
at  her  strange  behavior ;  but  from  the  moment 
when  he  saw  that  she  had  found  her  own  mother, 
he  stood  with  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast,  the 
only  silent  one  among  the  crowd. 

"  Simon  Gray  was  immediately  sent  for,  and  it 
was  established,  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt, 
that  Mary  had  indeed  found  a  mother,  and  Mrs. 
Wallace  a  long-lost  daughter ;  and  the  minister 
offered  up  a  solemn  public  thanksgiving  to  God 
for  their  re-union." 

The  children  thanked  their  grandmother  for 
telling  them  such  a  very  interesting  story,  and 
little  Helen  danced  with  joy,  she  was  so  glad  that 
Mary  had  found  her  mother. 

"  I  have  one  more  wish  to  be  gratified,  grand- 
mother," said  George  Gray  ;  "  I  should  like  to  go 
to  Quinsniket  and  see  the  place  where  Philip  and 
his  followers  were  sheltered,  and  where  Namoina 
died." 

"  Your  wish  shall  be  indulged,  my  dear  boy," 
said  Mrs.  Gray.  "  When  the  spring  opens,  I  will 
take  you  all  to  pass  a  few  weeks  in  the  country; 


MARY  WALLACE.  157 

and  we  will  go  o  Quinsniket.  You  will  find 
many  traces  of  the  Indians  still  existing,  in  the 
names  of  different  localities,  and  in  the  recollec- 
tions of  the  ancient  inhabitants.  The  field  where 
they  planted  their  corn,  still  called  Indian  old- 
field,  is  to  he  seen  a  short  distance  from  Quins- 
niket ;  and  the  rock  itself,  so  intimately  connected 
with  the  history  of  a  fallen  but  once  mighty  race, 
still  remains,  as  it  were,  a  monument  to  designate 
their  grave.  The  spot  where  poor  Namoina  was 
buried,  is  now  within  the  limits  of  a  little  town. 
Her  hut  was  afterward  rebuilt  by  a  few  wander- 
,  ing  remnants  of  her  tribe,  and  some  of  the  present 
inhabitants  remember  it.  The  hearth-stone  is  still 
to  be  seen  ;  and  over  it  waves  a  honey-locust  tree, 
which  a  distinguished  gentleman,  since  dead,  plant- 
ed to  mark  the  spot  where  stood  the  last  wig- 


wam." 


14 


158 


THE  GENOESE  EMIGRANT. 

BY   MISS   E.    M.    ALLISON. 

"  It  was  the  fatal  pre-eminence  of  Genoa  to  wind  up  tht 
last  act  of  Italy's  direful  tragedy." 

LADT  MOBOAW. 

The  tremulous  moon's  light  silvery  gleam, 

Plays  over  Genoa's  halls  and  bowers, 
Gilds  with  a  bright  translucid  beam 

Her  splendid  domes  and  lofty  towers. 
Sardinia's  banners  waving  high 
In  pride  of  ancient  rivalry, 
Tell  to  the  world  the  wretched  fate 
Of  Genoa,  and  her  fallen  state ; 
That  she  a  proud  republic  host 
Once  fair  Iialia's  pride  and  boast, 
Which  stood  a  landmark  by  the  sea 
To  show  the  spot  where  all  were  free. 
By  commerce  rear'd,  her  sons  a  race 
Endow'd  with  wealth  and  martial  grace, 
Oft  Austria  from  her  walls  expell'd 
And  long  the  daring  French  repell'd, 


THE   GENOESE   EMIGRANT.  150 

Now  to  tyranny  bow 

'Neath  their  deadliest  foe ; 

Yield  their  sceptre  and  land 

To  a  tyrant's  command, 
And  though  panting  their  dear  cherish'd  rights  to 

regain, 
Unresistingly  bend  'neath  the  yoke  they  disdain. 
Oh,  Genoa,  could  none  be  found 
To  deal  thee  such  a  deadly  wound, 
To  steal  thy  gem  of  brightest  glow 
To  deck  a  worthless  despot's  brow, 
Supplant  thy  cross*  and  golden  croum 
That  floated  o'er  thy  ancient  town ; 
But  those  the  generous  arms  embraced 
With  hospitable  welcome  graced  ? 

But  whose  is  yon  form  on  the  lone  beach  side, 
Wrapt  in  his  mantle  that  streams  o'er  the  tide  t 
Whose  footsteps'  hurried  riound, 
No  measure  seems  to  beat 
To  aught  that  breathes  around 
Pale  midnight's  calm  retreat. 
And  see  yon  skiff  on  ocean  wide, 

Its  pendants  on  the  light  breeze  streaming, 

*  The  arms  of  Genoa. 


160  THE    GENOESE    EMIGRANT. 

Dashing  along  the  sparkling  tide, 
A  circle  bright  around  it  gleaming. 
Approaching  gently  to  the  shore 
Waits  it  to  waft  yon  stranger  o'er, 
To  seek  in  some  far  distant  clime 
A  solitary  home. 
Through  foreign  lands  to  roam 
And  waste  a  joyless,  sunless  prime. 
A  branch  lopped  from  the  native  tree 
To  wither  where  no  eye  may  see 
And  reck  its  fallen  destiny. 
Genoa,  to  fly  thy  still-lov'd  walls, 
That  hjold  to  him  the  spell-bound  halls. 
Where  dwelt  his  sires  in  days  gone  by 
The  guardian  friends  of  liberty ; 
And  where  commingling  now  they  lie 
Beneath  thy  soft  cerulean  sky. 
From  every  tie  at  once  to  sever. 
To  fly  from  scenes  by  time  endeared, 
Remembered  joys  to  leave  for  ever 
That  round  his  natal  spot  are  twined. 
There  bright  ambition  o'er  him  broke 

In  strains  of  martial  story. 
And  first  his  ardent  soul  awoke 

From  youth's  gay  dreams  to  glory 
And  bending  from  above 


THE    GENOESE    EMIGKANT.  161 

'Twas  there  immortal  love, 
His  golden  sunbeams  flung  around  him, 
\nd  with  his  roseate  fetters  bound  him ; 
With  yet  one  firmer  look  entwined 
To  all,  that  must  be  now  resigned. 

1  he  stranger  watched  a  dark  cloud  hovering 

In  the  blue  sky. 
And  over  Genoa's  walls  it  was  lowering, 
Nor  passed  it  by. 

And  resting  on  the  ether  blue, 

It  hid  the  pale  moon  from  his  view. 

He  gazed — for  deemed  he  in  such  skies 

So  dense  a  vapor  ne'er  could  rise. 

To  sully  the  untainted  light 

That  hallows  an  Italian  night. 

His  brow  was  motionless — and  none  could  tell 

If  sorrow  there  had  been. 
And  from  his  still-fixed  eye  no  tear-drop  fell 

To  show  of  inward  agony. 

Or  aught  that  passed  within 

His  bosom's  sanctuary. 

Once  his  eye  glanced  o'er  the  expanded  sea, 
With  such  a  look  as  mocks  at  misery  ; 
L  14* 


162  THE    GENOESE    EMIGRANT. 

Who,  as  the  poets  tell, 
At  midnight  leaves  her  cell 
To  sit  the  ocean  rocks  among, 
Re-echoing  the  owlets'  song. 

But  soon  again  his  glance  is  resting 
On  those  turrets  lofty  and  gray 
Lit  by  a  gleam  of  the  moon's  ray. 

His  sires  might  leave  them  to  be  breasting 
Their  foreign  foes,  on  earth  or  main  ; 
More  glorious  to  return  again  : 
But  he  an  alien  from  this  shore, 
Must  quit  them  to  return  no  more. 
He  could  have  fought  for  Genoa's  right, 
His  soul  blenched  not  in  thickest  fight — 
He  could  drench  that  arm  deep  in  gore, 
But  not  quail  'neath  a  foeman's  power. 
He  could  have  fought  till  latest  gasp 
To  free  from  an  invader's  grasp 
His  dear  fraternity — his  all — 
If  but  her  cross  were  on  that  wall. 
That  would  have  been  a  beacon  lisrht 
To  light  him  on  his  foes  in  fight, 
Better  than  glare  of  torches  bright. 
Shall  he  then  own  a  tyrant's  chain  ? 
Let  viler  souls  than  his  remain ; 
But  if  he  plough  the  watery  wave 


THE    GENOESE    EMIGRANT.  163 

Where  shall  he  find  a  land  of  hrave 
Hearts,  bound  to  Liberty  ?     No  more  ; 
Such  dreams  are  of  an  age  that's  o'er; 
And  men  are  wiser  grown — and  knaves, 
Choosing  them  quiet  coward  graves. 
Not  glorious  ones,  upon  the  land 
Their  fathers  valor  won  and  mann'd. 

f 

Liberty  scorns  with  those  to  dwell 

Who  love  her  name  but  passing  well — 
Who  hang  it  a  boast  on  the  lip  for  ever, 
A  lip-drop  warming  the  soul,  oh  !  never — 
But  'mongst  those,  where  her  deep-cherished  name 
Burns  in  a  bright  and  hallowed  flame. 
Who  breathe  it  but  forth  in  devotional  sigh — 
Who  know  but  to  love  her,  and  have  her,  or  die  ! 
And  now  her  pure  white  flag  unfurled 
Is  waving  o'er  a  western  world. 
And  to  that  new-found  world  across  the  waves, 
In  yon  proud  ship  the  gathering  storm  that  braves, 
His  onward  course  is  steered.     Yes  !  to  that  shore 
Beyond  the  Atlantic's  wide  resounding  roar 
His  countryman*  first  traversed,  and  a  name 
Carved  on  the  'scutcheon  of  immortal  fame. 

*  Christopher  Columbus. 


164  THE    GENOESE    EMIGRANT. 

What  would  he  more  ?     Let  others  reap  the  gain 
That  springs  from  genius's  creative  brain — 
'Tis  ever  so  : — while  grief  and  toil  must  win 
The  portals  that  to  glory's  shrine  let  in. 
But  there  are  toils  that  win  no  high  renown ; 
Griefs  that  the  loftiest  spirit  can  bow  down : 
And  such  were  his,  who,  standing  by  that  prow, 
Felt  the  worst  ills  that  fate  on  man  can  throw ; 
But  felt  them  as  a  man,  resolved  to  bear. 
And  snatch  a  brand  to  show  what  yet  he  dare 
If  Heaven  permit ;  if  not,  to  seek  a  tomb, 
Columbia,  in  thy  forest's  thickest  gloom. 
Where  none  can  brand  him  with  his  fathers'  fame, 
And  say  he  ill  deserves  their  glorious  name. 
Ah  !  thought  most  true  which  all  of  grief  contains, 
And  owning  most  the  spirit  most  disdains. 

'Tis  night — and  musing  on  the  deep  he  stands, 
The  abstracted  emigrant  from  other  lands. 
His  form  majestic  bending  o'er  the  tide, 
Marks  he  impatiently  how  slow  they  glide 
O'er  the  unfathomed  depth  that  lies  below ; 
*0r  doth  but  watch  the  sparkles  as  they  glow 
Among  the  envious  billows'  angry  play, 
That  foam  and  toss  on  high  the  beauteous  ray : 
Not  that  the  glories  of  the  sea  or  sky 


THE  GENOESE  EMIGRANT.  165 

Absorb  the  thoughts  that  in  his  bosom  lie, 
Panting  to  burst  from  their  sepulchral  home 
In  all  the  ghastliness  of  livid  gloom. 
Why  is  his  head  uncovered  to  the  air  ? 
As  if  the  keenest  wind  came  hotly  there. 
Aye,  even  with  the  elemental  wrath, 
His  troubled  spirit  a  communion  hath. 
Then  stalk  before  his  view  in  mournful  maze, 
Unburicd  phantoms  of  departed  days  ; 
With  withered  hopes  around  them  wildly  flung, 
Like  Howers  to  which  no  breath  of  odor  clung; 
Nor  hue  of  brightness — such  as  o'er  the  dead 
The  gifts  of  fond  affection  vainly  shed 
Become,  ere  the  same  morn  that  saw  them  bloom, 
hath  fled. 

So  on  him  comes  the  memory  of  the  past. 
In  floating  shadows  thickly  seen  and  fast, 

Their  spectral  forms  in  grim  array 

Press  on  him  as  in  battle- fray. 
And  he  resists  them  not  with  hostile  force, 
As  he  would  once  turn  back  the  assailants'  course 
In  the  hot  tide  of  war — but  vainly  throws 
A  weak  retaliation  on  those  foes 
Who  urge  a  contest  with  the  soul — and  there 
Strike  their  keen  shafts  envenomed  by  despair. 


166  THE  GENOESE  EMIGRANT. 

Now  in  a  milder  mood  his  light  guitar 
Swells  o'er  the  crested  billows  dashing  far. 
Sweet  is  the  voice  of  music  and  of  song — 
But  sweetest  when  it  floats  the  ocean  waves  along 

SONG. 

"  My  loved  guitar,  send  forth  thy  deepest  gush 
Of  mournful  melody,  in  one  farewell. 
Where  all  regretful  tenderness  may  rush. 
And  leave  the  spirit  halcyon  in  its  cell. 
Halls  of  my  sires,  that  I  no  more  shall  view, 
Land  of  my  home — a  long — a  last  adieu  ! 

"  'Tis  well !     Better  the  eagle  should  go  forth 
Than  have  his  eyrie  for  a  prison  tower. 
There  on  the  mountains  of  the  stormy  north 
More  glad  to  soar,  than  in  bright  sunny  bower 
With  chain  of  silken  fetters  idly  bound, 
Compell'd  to  wheel  in  measured  circles  round. 

"  My  lov'd  guitar,  not  this  thy  touching  force 
Of  soul-like  cadence,  that  was  wont  to  bring 
The  crystal  tear-drops  from  the  heart's  deep  source 
Of  her,  to  whom  it  was  my  joy  to  sing ; 
While  o'er  her  brow  the  light  of  love  would  break, 
Beauteous  as  morning's  first  encrimsoned  streak  * 


THE  GENOESE  EMIGRANT.  167 

Clari ! — but  I  must  let  that  name  no  more 
Sweep  o'er  these  strings. — Maiden  more  fair 
Than  any  minstrel's  love  in  days  of  yore ! 
And  dearer,  too ! — but  I  must  strive  to  tear 
That  name  from  out  my  heart ;  where  it  so  long 
Hath  dwelt  like  odor,  or  the  breath  of  song. 

"  Yet  still  one  long— one  passionate  adieu 

As  'twere  my  soul  sigh'd  forth,  to  thee  I  send. 

Oh  that  it  humbly  at  thy  feet  could  sue 

For  one  last  thought,  that  thou  wouldst  deign  to 

bend 
On  the  lone  exile  from  his  land,  and  thee. 
Who  ne'er  may  claim  thee  now — his  bride  to  be. 

"  And  thou  !  my  native  land — a  last  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  grandeur  of  thy  marble  halls! 
Farewell  the  hope  again  with  thee  to  dwell ! 
Farewell  the  ambitious  beat  to  glory's  calls! 
All  I  all  adieu  !     My  native  land,  no  more 
These  exiled  feet  shall  press  thy  much  lov'd 
shore  I" 


168 


SONNET. 

ON  A  SLEEPING  INFANT. 

Sleep's  dewy  veil  hath  sealed  thy  curtained  eyes, 
And  lapped  thine  earliest  cares  in  peaceful  rest, 
Fair  babe ;  yet  soon  all  radiant  shalt  thou  rise, 
Smiling  new  rapture  to  thy  mother's  breast. 
Oh  may  no  darker  clouds  obscure  the  skies 
Of  thy  bright  promise — mayest  thou  never  know 
The  cold  world,  stripped  from  its  deceitful  guise 
Of  hollow  seeming  and  love's  empty  show ; 
Nor  learn,  with  heart  convulsed  and  passion-tost, 
That  parents  may  forget,  and  friends  grow  chill, 
That   health — home — fortune — country   may   be 

lost — 
That  mortal  idols  are  but  mortal  still ; 
But  slumber  thus  when  earth's  last  woes  are  o'er, 
Thus  wake  to  light  and  life  for  evermore. 

H 


ia» 


CHILD  OF  MY  HEART. 


Child  of  my  heart !  in  sorrow's  hour, 

When  all  the  ills  of  life  are  nigh, 
And  suffering  Nature  has  no  power, 

To  stay  the  pang,  to  still  the  sigh ; 
When  suns  no  longer  deign  to  shine, 

And  friends  who  came  in  early  years, 
Desert  the  home  and  fly  the  shrine. 

Whose  only  offering  then,  is  tears : 


Thou  shalt  be  nigh,  in  weal  and  wo, 

My  love  a  balm  shall  ever  be. 
And  thou  shalt  teach  the  heart  to  know. 

Truth  still  abides  with  infancy 
The  crowd  that  flies  the  broken  heart. 

To  thee  shall  no  example  prove ; 
And  thou,  when  all  the  rest  depart, 

Shalt  watch  with  hope,  and  bless  with  love. 

s. 
15 


170 


MAY  MORNING. 


Thol  art  abroad  betimes — the  laughing  wind 
Ruffling  thy  tresses,  and  with  ardent  kiss 
Heightening  the  rich  carnation  of  thy  cheek, 
And  thy  lip's  roseate  grain ! 

Away !  away ! 
To  the  fresh  meadows — there  thy  neck  of  snow, 
And  broad  intelligent  brow,  with  drops  to  lave 
Of  clearest  May-dew — so  no  envious  stain. 
Freckle,  nor  sunburnt  spot,  shall  mar  the  sheen 
Of  that  pure  skin,  which,  exquisitely  white, 
Glows  with  rich  witness  of  the  eloquent  blood. 
That  courses,  in  its  thousand  channels  warm, 
Beneath  the  snowy  surface. 

Morn  is  up. 
With  all  her  matin  worship — song  of  birds, 
And  breath  of  spangled  flowers !     Then  tarry  not 
To  cull  the  earliest  benefits  of  May, 
Before  the  sun  with  scorching  touch  profane 


V 


MAY    MOiTNING.  171 

Have  marred  their  virgin  beauties.     Life  is  brief — 
Too  brief  to  loiter  in  the  chamber's  gloom, 
When  thou  mayest  greet  the  glorious  morning's 

pride 
In  the  bright  rale,  or  on  the  mountain's  side ! 

H. 


172 


MY  FIRST  BORN. 


THE    HOUR    OF    HER    BIKTH. 


Was't  not  a  cry  of  pleasure 

Burst  from  that  shrouded  lOom  ? 
God  bless  thee,  mother  of  my  first, 

Love's  pledge  through  joy  and  gijom  ; 
Long  hours  we  looked  to  measure 

The  rapture,  now  so  free, 
That,  like  some  stream,  the  rocks  have  burst ; 

Restrained  it  cannot  be. 
I  may  not  speak  my  pleasure, 

The  tears  are  in  mine  eye, 
And,  like  one  long  awake  to  thirst, 

I  pant  for  liberty — 
Freedom  to  see  my  treasure, 

To  hush  its  cries,  and  rest 

My  infant  daughter,  yet  unnursed 

Upon  her  father's  breast. 

s. 


173 


CONDY  O'NEAL. 


*'  Welcome  to  Wheatland !"  cried  I,  one  fine 
autumnal  evening,  seeing  my  old  friend,  Captain 
Evans,  appropching  my  door.  ''You  are  a  bad 
paymaster  in  the  article  of  visits,"  I  continued, 
handing  him  an  arm-chair.  "  Here  have  I  been 
living  fifteen  years,  visiting  you  half  a  dozen  times 
a  year,  and  receiving  nothing  but  fruitless  promises 
of  a  return  for  my  civilities  :  but  here  you  are  at 
last,  and  right  welcome  to  your  ancient  hall." 

"Aye,  aye,"  replied  the  Captain.  ''Every 
year,  and  every  month,  since  leaving  this,  have  I 
determined  that  you  should  have  me  for  your 
guest ;  but,  I  know  not  how  it  happened,  that  each 
day  seemed  to  bring  forth  a  trouble,  or  an  occu- 
jpation,  at  least,  sufficient  for  itself.  But  here  I 
am  at  last ;  and,  as  Tom  is  at  length  out  of  the 
way,  I  mean  to  be  at  my  ease  here,  and  billet 
myself  upon  you  for  a  month  at  the  least." 

Captain  Evans  was  a  hardy  old  "  revolutioner," 
nearly  seventy  years  of  age,  but  hale  and  stout, 

15* 


174  coNDT  o'neal. 

and  as  active  as  most  men  of  forty.  The  farm 
on  which  I  resided  had  been  the  property  of  his 
father,  and  the  Captain  had  passed  the  greater  por- 
tion of  his  life  upon  it.  Inheriting  the  farm  upon 
the  death  of  his  father,  the  Captain  continued  to 
reside  on  it  until  the  time  of  my  purchasing  it 
from  him.  His  only  daughter  having  been  left  a 
widow,  with  four  sons,  as  yet  young,  he,  at  her 
request,  sold  the  farm,  and  went  to  reside  with  her 
in  another  part  of  the  country,  devoting  himself 
to  the  care  of  his  grandchildren  and  the  manage- 
ment of  his  daughter's  estate.  Here  I  had  fre- 
quently visited  him,  and  received  many  an  unful- 
filled promise  of  a  return  in  kind  to  my  visits. 
He  had  at  length  taken  the  opportunity,  when  the 
youngest  of  his  grandsons  was  sent  to  college,  to 
pay  me  the  long  deferred  visit. 

On  the  morning  following  his  arrival  my  guesl 
was,  according  to  his  wont,  astir  very  early,  and 
before  breakfast  was  announced  we  had  rambled 
over  the  greater  part  of  the  farm  ;  each  well-re- 
membered spot  eliciting  its  anecdote  from  my 
communicative  friend. 

In  the  evening  we  again  walked  abroad  ;  and, 
having  followed  the  windings  of  the  creek  to  its 
junction  with  the  Schuylkill,  we  seated  ourselves 


coNDY  o'neal.  17"5 

upon  the  mouldering  trunk  of  a  gigantic,  fallen 
button-wood  tree.  The  bank  of  the  stream  was 
here  about  twenty  feet  in  height,  and  descended 
perpendicularly  to  the  water,  which  was  very 
deep.  Toward  the  opposite  side  the  water  shoaled, 
and  was  bordered  by  a  low,  muddy  shore. 

"  This,"  said  I,  after  a  short  pause  in  the  con- 
versation, "has  been  a  magnificent  tree." 

The  Captain  laughed,  and  said,  rather  suddenly, 
"  Do  you  remember  Condy  O'Neal,  a  little  Irish- 
man, who  formerly  lived  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"  I  have  but  a  faint  recollection  of  the  man  ;  he 
has  been  dead  many  a  year  since." 

"  This  tree  has  recalled  to  my  mind  a  droll  ad- 
venture  of  Condy's,  in  which  the  tree  bore  a  part. 

"  Condy  came  into  the  county  about  the  year 
1770,  and  opened  a  school.  He  was  a  true  son 
of  Erin,  fond  of  fun,  the  bottle,  and  the  girls,  and 
seemed  to  have  been,  by  nature,  designed  for 
amusement.  He  was  a  short,  fat,  little  mortal, 
with  a  bald  patch  on  his  carroty  poll ;  his  face 
was  flat  and  nearly  square,  his  mouth  was  large, 
and  puckered  with  a  smile  of  habitual  drollery, 
and  his  little  gray  eyes  twinkled  like  those  of  a 
cat.  No  one  had  ever  seen  Condy  looking  sad ; 
and  he  nevei   spoke  but  to  excite  a  smile  by  his 


176  coNDY  o'neal.  . 

humor  or  his  bulls.  Withal  he  was  by  no  means 
touchy,  and  could  laugh  very  heartily  at  a  joke 
even  at  his  own  expense.  But  it  was  among  the 
girls  that  his  powers  were  most  fully  displayed ; 
no  professor  of  blarney  could  outshine  Condy  in 
the  art  of  flattery.  When  in  the  society  of  the 
fair,  Condy's  eloquence  was  unbounded :  the  tor- 
rent of  compliments,  jokes,  and  blunders  flowed 
with  unpausing  rapidity.  It  is,  therefore,  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  he  became  a  leading  man  in 
conversation,  and  that  our  country  beaux,  one  and 
all,  felt  themselves  below  par  in  his  presence. 
Condy  was  not  slow  to  remark  this,  and  infinite 
was  the  pleasure  he  took  in  teasing  them  as  often 
as  opportunity  offered.  No  sooner  did  he  observe 
a  beau  looking  particularly  tender  at  one  of  the 
lasses,  than  Condy  took  upon  himself  to  cut  him 
out ;  and  many  an  evening  has  he  thus  consumed 
in  wronging  a  poor  dog  of  a  lover. 

"The  man  whom  Condy  chiefly  delighted  to 
torment  was  a  young  farmer,  named  John  Binga- 
man,  a  man  of  great  stature  and  prodigious 
strengh — the  hero  of  all  the  broils  and  boxing- 
matches  in  the  country.  These  boxing-matches 
are  now  out  of  fashion,  but  at  the  time  of  which 
I  am  speaking,  they  were  very  common ;  each 


coNDY  o'neal.  177 

county  having  one  or  more  champions,  who  often 
tried  their  prowess  against  those  of  the  neighbor- 
ing counties.  In  these  contests  John  had  never 
yet  found  his  match  ;  and  his  temper  had,  in  con- 
sequence, become  so  proud  and  overbearing,  as  to 
render  him  an  object  of  dislike  to  all  his  acquaint- 
ance. John's  air  of  superiority  was  intolerable 
to  Condy.  He  felt  himself  to  be  John's  superior 
in  all  but  brute  force ;  and  was  grieved  to  think 
that  so  thick-skulled  a  mortal  should  be  at  all 
noticed  by  the  side  of  a  man  of  mind  like  Condy 
O'Neal.  On  the  other  hand,  John  was  equally 
chagrined  by  the  deference  paid  to  so  diminutive 
a  creature  as  Condy.  He  was  perpetually  galled 
by  Condy 's  remarks  on  the  superiority  of  mind 
over  muscle — of  wit  over  strength.  He  felt  that 
his  former  influence  was  sadly  impaired  ;  and  how 
to  re-establish  it,  was  beyond  his  contrivance.  To 
attempt  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  Condy  and  flog  him, 
would,  he  was  aware,  be  useless ;  for,  in  the  first 
place,  Condy  was  too  well  acquainted  with  his 
rival's  bodily  powers  to  risk  a  battle ;  and,  second- 
ly, Condy's  superiority,  resting  in  his  wit,  could 
not  be  beaten  out  of  him  by  kicks  and  cuffs.  John, 
iherefore,  concluded  that  it  would  be  best  to  bear 
Condy's  presence -with  patience;  certain  that  the 

M 


178  coNDY  o'neal. 

roving  disposition  natural  to  school-n. asters  must, 
ere  long,  remove  the  evil  from  his  sight.  In  the 
mean  time,  however,  he  resolved  to  wreak  his 
vengeance  by  playing  all  manner  of  boorish  prac- 
tical jokes  upon  Condy. 

"  One  evening,  late  in  autumn,  Condy,  John,  and 
a  number  more,  found  themselves  assembled  at  a 
husking  frolic,  where  John,  whose  Dulcinea  was 
of  the  party,  exerted  himself  to  the  utmost  to  get 
the  better  of  Condy ;  and,  by  dint  of  tripping  up 
his  heels  and  then  burying  him  beneath  a  huge 
heap  of  corn-husks,  or  pushing  him  headlong 
over  a  row  of  lasses  seated  at  their  work,  he  con- 
tiived  to  keep  the  laughers  on  his  own  side. 
Condy  bore  all  this  with  his  characteristic  good 
humor,  until,  the  business  of  the  evening  having 
been  nearly  completed,  and  his  scheme  of  ven- 
geance matured,  he  suddenly  assumed  the  air  of 
a  man  whose  patience  is  exhausted,  and  let  fall  a 
menace  of  revenge.  Irritated  by  such  a  speech 
from  a  man  like  Condy,  John  roughly  seized  him 
by  the  shoulder,  and  demanded  to  know  what  he 
was  threatening.  '  What  I  may  never  be  able  to 
undo,'  replied  Condy,  gravely.  '  And  what  may 
that  be  V  asked  John.  '  Why,  Mister  Bingaman, 
1  could  clap  a  horse's  head  upon  your  shoulders, 


coNDY  o'neal.  179 

and  that  is  more  than  I  could  tal^e  off  ao-ain.'- 
John  burst  into  an  outrajreous  fit  of  lausrhter,  and 
dared  Condy  to  the  trial.  '  No  !  no  !'  said  Condy, 
'  I  don't  want  to  do  you  an  injury.  I  could  easily 
put  a  horse's  head  upon  you,  but  if  I  should  do 
so,  there  it  must  stick  as  long  as  you  live  :  I  could 
not  take  it  off.'  '  Try  your  best,'  again  cried  John  ; 
'I  am  not  afraid  of  you.'  'Well,  well,'  replied 
Condy,  '  as  you  doubt  my  ability,  I'll  just  do  some- 
thing for  a  small  bit  that  shall  harm  no  one,  and 
convince  you  of  the  truth  of  what  I  said  about 
the  horse's  head.  Now,  John,  strong  as  you  are, 
I  will  undertake  to  make  a  cat  pull  you  across 
that  creek  by  a  rope.  Will  you  bet  me  a  joe 
upon  it  V  '  Done,'  cried  John  ;  '  post  your  joe.' 
The  money  was  regularly  staked,  when  Condy, 
turning  to  the  company,  requested  them  to  adjourn 
to  the  farm-house,  where  he  would  presently  join 
them,  in  order  to  make  some  necessary  prepara- 
tions. Condy  went  to  his  school-room,  which  was 
not  very  far  off,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned, 
bearing  a  sheet  of  paper,  a  pencil,  a  pair  of  divi- 
ders, and  a  Gunter's  scale.  Entering  the  house, 
he  found  the  company  very  merry  upon  the  occa- 
sion. At  first,  all  was  laughter  and  jesting  at 
Condy's  expense ;  but  he,  nothing  moved  thereby, 


180  CONDY    o'^'EAL. 

seated  himself  with  the  most  imperturbable  gravity 
by  the  side  of  a  table  ;  while  John,  with  a  grin  of 
anticipated  triumph  on  his  visage,  seated  himself 
opposite  and  watched  his  motions.  Condy  pored 
intently  upon  his  scale,  then  adjusted  his  divi- 
ders upon  it,  and  proceeded  to  draw  three  con- 
centric circles  upon  the  paper.  In  the  central 
circle  he  wrote  John  Bixgaman,  and  within  the 
two  outer  he  drew  a  number  of  strange  fisjures  of 
animals,  birds,  insects,  etc.  During  this  process, 
which  was  conducted  with  o-reat  solemnity  and 
extreme  slowness,  John's  phiz  gradually  lost  its 
comic  expression,  and  assumed  a  dolorous  cast. 
The  whole  company  caught  the  infection  of  solem- 
nity, and,  to  noise  and  merriment,  there  succeeded 
a  silence  so  dead,  that  the  sound  of  Condy's  pencil 
was  distinctly  audible  as  it  slowly  passed  over 
the  paper.  Having  now  tickled  his  audience  to 
the  proper  point,  Condy  arose,  and,  in  a  solemn 
tone,  said,  '  John  Bingaman  !'  John  rose  from 
his  seat  with  a  visage  rueful  as  his  who  drew 
King  Priam's  curtains  in  the  night,  to  tell  him 
that  his  warlike  son  was  dead.  'John  Binga- 
man !'  Condy  repeated,  '  put  your  finger  upon 
this  magic  circle  and  acknowledge  it  for  your 
hand   and    seal.'      Spite   of   his    natural    intre- 


CONDY  o'lNLAL.  181 


pidity,  John's  superstitious  fears  had  completely 
overpowered  him,  and  he  stood  gazing  upon 
Condy,  while  his  knees  almost  smote  together 
with  apprehension.  « John  Bingaman  !'  again  said 
Condy,  '  do  you  refuse  to  acknowledge  this  to  be 
your  hand  and  seal  V  John  muttered  somethincr 
unintelligibly.  '  Well,'  said  Condy, '  then  the  bet 
is  lost — the  joe  is  mine.'  The  idea  of  so  easily 
parting  with  his  joe,  and  the  fear  of  the  ^'idicule 
which  began  already  to  manifest  itself  in  the 
titters  of  the  company,  recalled  John  fn  m  his 
stupor,  and,  hastily  clapping  his  finger  uj  on  the 
fatal  circle,  he  said,  <  This  is  my  hand  an  1  f  ?al, 
confound  you  ! — now  make  what  you  please  of  it.' 
'  'Tis  well  !'  said  Condy,  with  solemnity,  fclcing 
his  paper  and  gathering  up  his  drawing  irsiru- 
nients :  '  now  I  must  ask  the  assistance  of  the 
company  in  this  affair.  The  cat  must  be  black, 
a  female  which  has  never  had  kittens,  and  must 
weigh  two  pounds  exactly.'  He  also  infoiTned 
them  that  the  proposed -feat  could  be  perfoimed 
only  when  both  sun  and  moon  were  below  the 
horizon. 

*'The  company  dispersed.  John  went  a  ivay 
with  a  feeling  of  dread  for  v/hich  he  could  not 
accoJint,  and  which,  with  his  utmost  exertions,  he 

16 


182  f  ONDY  o'neal. 

failed  to  dispel.  Could  Condy  be  serious  ?  Could 
he  really  make  so  diminutive  a  creature  perform 
what  he  had  proposed  ?  Yet  there  was  nothing 
like  jesting  in  Condy's  manner,  and  he  was  not 
the  man  to  throw  away  a  joe  and  at  the  same  time 
risK  a  dozen  kicks  from  John,  besides  incurring 
the  ridicule  of  the  whole  vicinity.  John  shook 
his  wise  head  ao-ain  and  again,  but  could  not 
attain  to  any  satisfactory  conclusion.  Condy 
sought  his  home  in  a  very  different  mood.  He 
laughed  heartily  as  soon  as  he  was  in  his  own 
room:  for  now  he  had  his  mighty  rival  in  his 
power,  and  could,  without  fail,  expose  him,  a 
laughing-stock,  to  the  whole  county. 

"  As  to  the  rest  of  the  company,  they  viewed 
the  matter  in  various  lights.  The  more  supersti- 
tious portion,  awed  by  the  solemnity  of  the  peda- 
gogue, looked  upon  him  with  mingled  fear  and 
admiration ;  while  the  less  credulous  part,  most 
of  them  young,  laughed,  chatted,  jested,  and  laid 
wagers  upon  the  success  of  the  plot.  As  more 
than  a  week  must  pass  before  the  day  fixed  upon 
for  the  decision  of  the  wager,  there  was  full  time 
for  gossiping ;  and  innumerable  were  the  tales  of 
witchcraft,  ghosts,  and  horrors  which  that  interval 
brought    forth.     Each   veteran    talker,    male   or 


CONDY  o'neal.  183 

female,  had  one  or  more  marvellous  tales  where- 
with to  entertain  the  fireside  assembly,  and  send 
the  children  to  bed  half  terrified  out  of  their  reason, 

"  During'  this  time  Condy  was  more  busy  and 
more  solemn  than  he  had  ever  before  been  known 
to  be.  Every  nook  and  corner  was  searched  for 
the  mystical  cat,  and  as  he  paraded  the  streets 
in  anxious  quest,  every  one  ran  to  his  door  to 
look  at  Condy,  as  if  he  had  been  some  strange 
creature  from  lands  unknown.  At  length  the  cat 
was  found,  but  where  he  had  procured  her  he 
would  not  tell.  This  led  people  to  the  very 
rational  conclusion  that  she  had  been  lent  for  the 
express  purpose  by  the  devil,  or  that  she  was  one 
of  the  witches  who,  about  that  period,  greatly  in- 
fested the  '  east  countrie.' 

"  On  the  appointed  evening  John  and  Condy, 
accompanied  by  about  one  hundred  persons,  re- 
paired to  the  spot  on  which  we  are  now  sitting, 
where  Condy  had  warned  them  all  to  remain : 
informing  them  that  if  any  one  crossed  the  creek 
he  must  do  it  at  the  risk  of  being  torn  to  pieces 
by  the  devil.  This  tree  at  that  time  stood  on  the 
bank  with  one  half  of  its  naked  roots  projecting 
over  the  water — the  earth  having  been  washed 
away  by  the  floods.     Here  John    took    his  seat. 


184  coNDY  o'neal. 

his  body  reclining  against  the  foot  of  the  tree,  his 
feet  firmly  planted  against  a  root,  and  either  hand 
grasping  a  root  by  his  side.  Condy  tied  the  rope 
securely  about  John's  body,  and  then  crossed  the 
creek,  carrying  the  other  end  of  the  rope  to  a  spot 
a  few  yards  from  the  water.  You  have  planted 
a  very  pretty  hedge  garden  near  the  water's  edge, 
but  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak  the  shore  was 
bare,  and  about  ten  yards  from  the  water  was  a 
fence  with  a  thick  growth  of  alders  and  rank 
weeds.  Condy,  having  fastened  his  cat  to  the 
rope,  proceeded  to  describe  a  large  circle  round 
her,  muttering  incantations  and  contriving  so  to 
spin  out  the  time  as  to  leave  as  little  light  as  pos- 
sible on  the  transaction.  The  crowd  upon  the 
bank  stood  awestruck  in  silent  expectation.    John 

*  With  half  shut  eyes,  pucker'd  cheeks, 
And  teeth  presented  bare,' 

sat  grasping  the  roots  on  either  side,  a  very  pic- 
ture of  melancholy  desperation.  Condy,  having 
prolonged  his  preparatory  measures  until  it  had 
become  tolerably  dark,  notified  John  that  he  must 
look  out,  for  he  was  now  about  to  givQ  the  fatal 
pull.     At    this    unwelcome    intelligence    Johns 


coNDY  o'neal.  185 

breath  came  thick  and  hard.  Condy  whipped 
his  cat^  and  cried  '  come  /' — the  cat  squalled,  and 
Jolin  squeezed  the  roots  with  the  gripe  of  a  giant, 
but  remained  unmoved.  Condy  now  addressed 
the  stars  and  planets,  calling  several  by  name, 
whipped  his  cat,  and  again  cried  ^comeP  and 
again  John  gave  the  roots  a  more  than  afiectionate 
squeeze.  Condy  now  talked  Irish  to  his  cat, 
whipped  her,  upbraided  the  stars  with  their  neg- 
lect of  him,  and  cried  '  come  V — still  John  main- 
tained his  position,  while  the  cat  seemed  unable 
even  to  stretch  the  heavy  rope  to  which  she  and 
John  were  attached.  This  farce  of  whipping  and 
calling  having  been  repeated  for  nearly  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  John  began  to  suspect  that  Condy 
had  brought  him  thither  for  the  purpose  of  m.aking 
a  fool  of  him.  Irritated  by  this  idea,  he  incau- 
tiously arose  from  his  recumbent  posture,  and  with 
divers  oaths  and  curses,  demanded  to  know  what 
Condy  meant.  Condy  seeing  John  thus  off  his 
guard,  plied  his  cat  with  Irish  and  hickory  most 
energetically,  and  cried  '  n(yw  come  V  So  said,  so 
done  :  down  went  John  into  the  creek.  The 
crowd  fled  from  the  spot  with  a  universal  cry  of 
horror.  John,  after  having  sunk  for  a  moment  in 
the  deep  water,  reappeared  on  the  surface — cut 

16* 


188  CONDY    0  NEAL. 

his  way  through  tlie  stream  with  the  foamirig 
rapidity  of  a  steamboat — ploughed  through  tne 
mud  of  the  opposite  shore,  and  brought  up  against 
the  old  worm  fence  with  a  shock  that  tumbled  it 
in  ruins  to  the  earth.  Condy  hastily  cut  the  rope, 
and  lifting  the  heap  of  rails  from  his  body,  begged 
him,  for  God's  sake,  to  make  the  best  of  his  way 
across  the  creek,  'or  the  devil  would  tear  him  to 
pieces.'  John  needed  not  much  persuasion  to  in- 
duce him  to  this  course,  and  he  dashed  through 
the  water  little  less  rapidly  than  when  the  cat 
helped  him  on.  He  afterward  affirmed,  with  many 
an  oath,  that,  turning  his  head«  during  this  pas- 
sage, he  saw  a  fiery-eyed,  black  monster,  of  the 
size  of  a  bull,  and  bearing  with  him  a  strong  odor 
of  brimstone,  leap  from  the  bushes  and  pursue  him 
to  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

"  Thus  ended  the  business  of  the  night.  John 
went  home  as  if  he  had  had  a  thousand  devils  st 
his  heels.  Condy  marched  deliberately  to  his 
lodging,  exulting  in  the  certainty  of  having  forever 
humbled  his  mighty  rival.  How  did  his  heart 
swell  with  the  idea  of  having,  little  as  he  was, 
conquered  the  mightiest  man  in  Chester  County ! 
*  Now,'  said  he  to  himself,  'John  is  down,  and  so 
I  will  keep  him  ;  as  often  as  he  attempts  to  bully 


\ 


coKDY  o'neal.  187 

or  look  big,  1  have  only  to  remind  liim  of  this 
night's  adventure  and  his  crest  will  fall.  Lord! 
what  a  time  I  shall  have  of  it,  and  what  a  flourish 
I  shall  cut  among  the  girls  !  Not  a  man  of  those 
boobies  will  dare  to  open  his  mouth  where  Condy 
O'Neal  happens  to  be.'  Thus  did  Condy  exult, 
little  thinking  of  the  fate  which  awaited  him.  He 
had  no  idea  that,  at  this  happy  moment,  his  evil 
genius  was  filling  the  vials  of  his  wrath  in  order 
to  pour  them  on  his  devoted  head. 

"  Condy  slept  soundly,  and  having  risen,  pro- 
ceeded, at  the  usual  hour,  to  his  school-house, 
where  he  found  all  silent  and  lonely.  There  was 
no  fire  in  the  stove,  nor  was  there  a  human  being 
visible.  What  could  it  mean  ?  Condy  looked  at 
his  watch  and  then  at  the  sun,  but  both  affirmed 
that  the  hour  was  9,  A.  M.  Was  this  a  holyday  ? 
No !  Christmas  does  not  come  in  November,  and 
that  is  the  nearest  holyday.  Condy  mused  as  he 
prepared  to  kindle  a  fire,  endeavoring  to  discover 
the  probable  reason  of  the  desertion  of  his  flock. 
His  musings,  however,  were  interrupted  by  the 
arrival  of  a  middle-aged  matron,  followed  by  her 
children  and  a  dozen  scholars  besides,  who  began 
to  gather  up  books,  slates,  etc.,  and  to  decamp 
without  even  the  ceremony  of  good-by !  .  Condy, 


188  CONDY    0  NFAL. 

not  a  little  surprised,  demanded  the  reason  of 
this  extempore  proceeding.  Madam  replied,  that 
neither  she  nor  her  neigiibors  could  think  of  send- 
ing  their  children  to  a  teacher  who  had  dealings 
with  the  devil.  This  was  too  much  for  Condy's 
gravity,  and  loud  and  long  did  he  laugh  as  madam 
retreated  from  the  room.  After  his  fit  of  merri- 
ment had  subsided,  Condy  sat  down  to  consider 
what  was  best  to  be  done.  '  To  argue  with  these 
people  would  be  useless,  and  to  reveal  the  secret 
of  the  trick  upon  John,  might  be  only  to  hand  my 
bones  over  to  the  surgeon  for  repairs.  Well,  I  sup- 
pose there  are  other  places,  besides  this,  where 
the  children  lack  learning.  So  there  is  no  use  in 
grieving  about  the  business ;  for  if  I  were  as  sad 
as  the  bottom  of  a  cherry-pie,  I  could  not  mend 
matters  a  \vhit !  It  is  very  provoking,  though,  to 
have  to  run  off  in  the  moment  of  signal  victory. 
But  I  suppose  I  must  say  farewell  to  Chester 
County.' 

''  Condy  collected  what  was  due  to  him  by  his 
patrons,  and  went  off  to  Bucks  County,  thence  to 
Montgomery,  and  so  forth,  seeking  a  situation,  but 
in  vain,  for  the  story  of  his  necromantic  exploit 
had  preceded  him  with  the  most  awful  exaggera- 
tions.     Still  he  kept  up  a  good  heart,  but  soon 


CONDY    O'NEAL.  189 

began  to  find  that  his  pocket  was  growing  alarm- 
ingly light,  and  that,  unless  something  was  done 
to  restore  its  gravity,  he  must  be  famished.  Upon 
arriving  at  this  very  natural  conclusion,  he  faced 
about,  resolved  to  go  to  Virginia,  where,  under  a 
feigned  name  and  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  the 
theatre  of  his  unlucky  celebrity,  be  might  '  teach 
the  young  idea  how  to  shoot '  in  full  security. 

"  His  knapsack  was  already  buckled  on,  his 
bill  paid,  his  half  gill  disposed  of,  and  his  staff 
grasped  in  his  dexter  hand,  when  he  was  sur- 
prised by  the  apparition  of  one  of  his  comrades 
from  Chester,  who  shook  him  most  cordially  by 
the  hand,  laughed  heartily,  slapped  his  shoulder, 
and  swore  that  he  was  the  cleverest  fellow  in  the 
world.  '  Come  Condy,'  said  he,  'you  must  come 
with  me  to  Chester.  It  is  all  out  about  the  cat ; 
and  look  here,  my  old  boy !"  Saying  this  he  un- 
folded a  school-subscription  paper,  containing  a 
most  imposing  array  of  signatures,  the  signers 
promising  'severally  to  pay  unto  Condy  O'Neal 
the  sums  unto  their  names  annexed,'  etc.,  etc. 

"  I  must  now  inform  you  how  the  matter  of  the 
cat  had  been  managed.  On  the  evening  preced- 
ing that  on  which  John  followed  the  cat  with  so 
much  rapidity  and  so  little  good  will.  Condy  took 


190  CONDY    o'nEAL. 

Adam  North  and  myself,  whom  Ije  had  let  into 
the  secret,  to  the  shore  yonder.  We  had  with 
us  a  good  rope,  which  we  buried  slightly  in  the 
mud  ;  one  end  touching  the  spot  where  Condy  was 
to  malie  his  circle,  the  other  end  being  drawn 
throuo-h  the  fence  and  concealed  amid  the  weeds 
and  alders.  A  stout  stick  about  two  feet  long, 
tied  by  the  middle  to  this  end  of  the  rope,  was  to 
serve  us  as  a  handle.  On  the  appointed  evening, 
some  time  before  sunset,  North  and  I  took  our 
fishing-rods  and  wandered  down  the  stream,  pre- 
tending to  be  very  busy  fishing ;  and  when  even- 
ing approached,  we  laid  our  rods  aside  and  crept 
into  the  midst  of  the  bushes  at  the  place  where 
our  rope  lay,  which  we  found  as  we  had  left  it 
on  the  preceding  evening.  Our  instructions  were, 
to  remain  quietly  at  our  post,  having  our  hands 
upon  the  stick,  until  Condy  should  cry,  'now 
COME  !'  when  we  were  to  run.  We  were  mightily 
tickled,  as  you  may  suppose,  with  the  idea  of  the 
ducking  and  fright  we  were  about  to  give  the  big 
bully ;  but  our  pleasure  was  not  a  little  damped 
by  a  most  unexpected  apparition.  North  had,  on 
leaving  home,  tied  up  his  dog,  a  huge  black  deer- 
hound,  for  fear  of  his  betraying  us  by  his  bark* 
ing;   but  shortly  after  the  people  had  begun  to 


CONDY    o'nEAL.  191 

assemble  on  this  bank,  we  saw  the  black  rasca^ 
coming  toward  us  with  his  nose  to  the  ground. 
Our  only  resource,  then,  was,  in  making  him  lie 
down  with  us  and  keep  quiet;  but,  to  our  utter 
dismay,  when  he  came  up  to  the  place  where  we 
lay,  we  discovered  that  he  had  killed  a  skunk  by 
the  way.  There  was,  however,  no  help  for  us; 
and  we  had  to  lie  close,  enduring  the  horrible 
stench  for  nearly  half  an  hour.  When  we  started 
up  to  run,  the  hound  started  with  us ;  but  hearing 
the  mighty  splash  made  by  John  in  his  voyage, 
and  fancying,  probably,  that  a  deer  had  run  into 
the  creek,  he  wheeled  about,  gave  tongue,  and 
ran  toward  the  water,  where  he  arrived  just  in 
time  to  follow  John  into  the  stream.  This  occa- 
sioned John's  mistake  about  the  monster  and  the 
smell  of  brimstone. 

"  The  secret  had  been  too  good  to  be  kept ;  and 
North,  notwithstanding  the  danger  to  which  he 
thereby  subjected  himself  of  a  hearty  thumping 
from  John,  told  the  whole  matter  (confidentially  of 
course)  to  a  few  dozens  of  his  intimate  friends,  and 
so  the  whole  matter  came  to  light.  I  must  confess 
I  was  horribly  afraid  when  I  found  it  had  got  wind  ; 
but  John  never  betrayed  any  ill  feeling  toward 
us.     Upon  Condy,  however,  he  vowed  vengeancp 


192  coNDY  o'neal. 

most  dire.  On  the  matter  becoming  public,  Johu 
was  driven  almost  mad  ;  for  he  was  roasted  with- 
out mercy  wherever  he  went.  Fancy  also  came 
to  the  aid  of  reality ;  and  he  imagined  that  there 
was  an  allusion  to  his  defeat  as  often  as  cats,  or 
ropes,  or  water,  or  Irish  school -masters  were 
mentioned.  He  even  ran  out  of  the  church  when 
the  parson,  one  Sunday,  read  the  story  of  the 
Egyptians  in  the  Red  Sea. 

"  If  poor  John  was  now  down,  Condy  was  in 
proportion  elated.  His  school  flourished  to  th(» 
utmost  extent  of  his  wishes ;  his  finances  were, 
of  course,  considerably  increased  ;  his  popularity, 
with  both  male  and  female,  was  unbounded  ;  and 
his  vanity  and  good  humor  were  augmented  ten- 
fold. The  grin  was  never  absent  from  his  mouth, 
and  he  laughed  and  chuckled  over  his  cat  exploit 
as  if  he  had  conquered  a  kingdom.  John  studi- 
ously avoided  him ;  and  whenever  accident  brought 
them  into  each  other's  company,  Condy  swelled 
and  looked  as  big  as  if  he  could  have  eaten  him 
up  at  a  single  sitting." 


»  -»  a  5  •> 

»    3    >   3    1 

'  ^   I 


.7    »   7    J  J 
»    )    >   1     J 


7    ■»    1    5    > 


c   t 

c  c  c  c  < 


c    f   (    (   ( 


f   c  (   r  ( 

'  t  ^  '  t  r' 

crccc  etccc 

ctfcc  crtcc 

c  e  «•  c  r  ^ 

ec  ef  c t c  f  c 

c  t  c  c  <  '   , 


193 


ON  THE  HUDSON. 

SY  ELIZABETH  MARY  ALLISON. 

River  that  rollest  thy  bright  course  along 

In  virgin  beauty,  yet  unwooed  by  song, 

Unknown  to  glory  ;  save,  to  that  which  springs 

Like  to  a  blushing  maiden,  from  the  fame 

Of  her  own  loveliness.     Shall  thy  name 

Be  fraught  with  bright  romance,  like  that  which 

flings 
Enchantment  o'er  the  Rhine,  whose  feudal  towers 
Look  down  disdainful  on  the  winged  hours  ? 

The  legionary  forces  of  old  Time, 
Battling  with  man  e'en  from  his  youthful  prime, 
And  the  sublimest  efforts  of  his  hand. 
Shall  genius  give  thee  immortality  ? 
Her  radiance  flung  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
By  magic  touch  of  her  unearthly  wand ; 
Far  richer  crowning  of  thy  sunny  tide. 
Than  palaces  of  wealth,  of  power  or  pride. 
N  17 


194  ON    THE    3UDS0N. 

Flow  on,  then,  bright  and  beauteous  river,  f!o% 
Yet  smile  beneath  the  summer  sunset's  glow, 
Or  autumn's  mellow  lustre,  shed  o'er  all 
The  sombre  grandeur  of  the  foliage  dense  ; 
Or  solitary  tree  that  doth  dispense 
O'er  thee  its  willowy  gracefulness  of  fall. 
While  now  thy  highlands  nearing  the  blue  sky, 
Emblazoned  with  its  orient  tracery. 

Flow  on — flow  on  in  loveliness  like  this ' 

Soft  as  the  im.age  of  Arcadian  bliss, 

When  earth  itself  was  young  as  thou  art  njw, 

Ere  in  the  east  was  mosque  or  high  serai. 

But  all  was  wild-wood,  where  the  deer  might  stray, 

Or  the  gazelle  bound  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

Unharmed  by  man,  who  led  his  flocks  along, 

Joying  in  freedom,  and  the  free  bird's  song. 

Nymph  of  thy  source,  and  bearer  of  the  urn 
From  which  these  crystal  waters  winding  tuni 
Into  their  varying  track  of  loveliness — 
Presiding  spirit  of  the  sparkling  flood. 
Of  heavenly  aspect  and  serenest  mood. 
Come  at  my  bidding,  with  each  shining  tress 
Wet  with  the  spray  of  the  full  rushing  stream 
Thou  lov'st  to  pour  beneath  the  moonlit  beam 


ON   THE    HUDSON.  195 

Come  at  my  bidding,  oh  immortal  maid  ! 

Come  from  thy  grotto,  'neath  the  wavelets  made 

Far,  far  below,  wrought  of  the  treasures  there, 

Mocking  the  eagerness  of  mortal  eye 

As  much  as  the  far  glories  of  the  sky. 

Deign  thee,  oh  nymph  ! — oh  deign  thee  to  draw 

near— 
The  poet  bending,  thus  invokes  thee  now 
With  pure  libations  to  thy  virgin  brow. 

She  rose,  the  genius  of  the  unsung  stream, 
She  rose  in  beauty  like  a  flashing  gleam 
Of  sudden  sunlight,  o'er  her  glassy  tide ; 
Fair  as  the  four  young  nymphs  that,  hand  in  hand, 
Gave  their  elastic  footsteps  to  the  sand. 
From  Tagus'  golden  depths,*  so  did  she  glide 
To  earth — so  wring  the  moisture  from  her  hair, 
Which  so  o'ershadowed  her  white  bosom  bare. 

The  spot  on  which  her  pearly  sandals  stay'd, 
Was  that  green  islet,  that  might  well  be  made 
Shrine  for  her  footsteps :  but  I  may  not  tell 
Of  half  the  loveliness  that  lent  its  aid 
To  that  enchanting  wilderness  of  shade, 

•  Eclogue  III.  of  Garcilasso  de  la  Vega 


196  ON   THE    mJDSON. 

Of  parted  rock  o'erhanging  a  sweet  dell : 
Meet  home  for  elfin  sprites  that  nightly  sing, 
And  woo  the  stars  to  their  enchanted  ring. 

Swift  to  this  place,  the  margin's  pride  she  passed. 
O'er  it  a  look  of  joyousness  she  cast. 
Sunlight  and  song  were  floating  on  the  air. 
The  hamadryads'  mirth,  with  warblings  blent 
Of  joyous  birds,  and  fainter  thrill  yet  sent 
By  myriad  tribes  of  insects  whirling  there 
In  the  fantastic  and  unending  round, 
The  bees'  glad  hum  and  crickets'  shriller  sound. 

The  river  wantoned  o'er  the  pebbles  white, 
And  seemed  to  linger  with  a  fond  delight 
By  this  loved  scene,  the  fairest  e'en  of  all 
That  decked  its  banks — and  hailed  the  jocund  flow 
Of  its  mellifluous  waters,  as  they  go 
Meandering  in  their  course.  But  hark  !  There  fall 
Sounds  of  enchanting  music  on  the  breeze. 
A  spirit's  voice  is  quivering  through  the  trees. 

*'  Minstrel  of  a  far  glorious  clime,"  it  said, 
"  What  hath  thy  wandering  footstep  hither  led, 
To  string  the  lyre  these  silent  haunts  among. 
Waking  the  elfin  sprites  that  here  reside, 


ON    THE    HUDSON.  197 

And  celling  on  the  genius  of  the  tide 
To  hearken  to  the  floatings  of  thy  song, 
Borne  to  our  crystal  palace,  whence  we  come 
Only  when  daylight  ceases,  and  the  hum 

"  Of  earthliness  is  still'd  for  many  an  hour. 
When  dews  descend  to  steep  the  purple  flower. 
And  the  more  purple  arch  of  heaven  is  hung 
With  clustering  stars,  the  coronal  of  night: 
Then,  then  we  come  to  joy  in  that  pure  light, 
To  lave  the  moonbeams  o'er  the  waters  flung, 
Dear  to  the  spirits  of  the  flood  and  fell, 
Dear  to  the  genii  of  the  woodland  dell. 

*'  But  thou  hast  dared  to  call  me  to  the  day, 
To  list  the  warblings  of  thine  earthly  lay, 
Presumptuous  bard  ;  or  is  it  to  demand 
Some  favor  from  us,  which  thou  fear'st  to  speak, 
And  only  o'er  thy  harp-chords  dar'st  to  break, 
The  vain  request  that  trembles  on  thy  hand, 
In  strains  that  by  the  aid  of  echo  go, 
From  rocks  above  to  coral  caves  below  ? 

*•■  But  know,  vain  bard,  the  longings  of  thy  breast, 
Stand  to  our  immortality  confessed. 
Thou  sigh'st  to  know  too  much  for  one  of  earth ; 
But  as  the  music  on  the  zephyrs  flung, 

17=^ 


198  ON    THE    HUDSON. 

As  the  full  cadence  on  thy  lips  that  hung, 
Dies  in  the  self-same  span  that  saw  its  birth 
As  thy  high  hopes  have  ended  in  despair, 
Be  too.  thy  rashness  tossed  to  empty  air. 

"  We  pardon  thee,  for  the  aerial  train. 
Have  ever  lov'd  the  poet's  thrilling  strain  •, 
Whether  it  swells  the  breezes  from  afar, 
Whether  'tis  blended  with  the  moon-tide  bright, 
In  full  accord  of  harmony  and  light, 
Or  sighed  to  Hesperus  the  vesper  star : 
Whether  'tis  given  to  rock,  or  vale,  or  shore, 
Or  sweetly  vibrates  our  glad  waters  o'er. 

"  But  see  the  mountains,  diademed  with  rays 
Of  the  departing  sun's  transcendant  blaze. 
Through  all  the  west  diffused.     One  halo  there 
Of  orient  lustre  shrines  his  farewell  beams, 
And  o'er  the  pensive  earth  reflected  gleams. 
Image  of  love  that  fain  would  linger  where 
His  presence  has  been  owned  with  warm  delightj 
And  forcefully  withdraws  his  parting  sight, 

"  And  all  himself  transfuses  in  that  look 
As  bright  as  gentle.     Mortal  eye  may  brook 
The  radiance  that  before  it  could  not  scan. 
There  too  pale  Dian  timidly  draws  nigh, 


ON    THE    HUDSON.  199 

Lost  in  the  richer  glory  of  the  sky. 
Hail  thee,  fair  crescent,  hail !     No  evil  ban 
From  wicked  fiend,  or  sprite,  can  mar  the  glow, 
That  soon  thy  beauty  all  around  shall  throw. 

"  Hail  thee,  fair  orb !  all  hail !  advance  to  lend 
Thy  more  ethereal  light.     All  spirits  bend 
[n  holiest  worship  to  thee.     Forth  from  glen 
And  the  sequestered  wood,  from  cave  and  bower, 
Impatiently  they  wait  the  genial  hour 
Of  thy  mild  sovereignty.     Advance  thee  then  ! 
Speed,  speed  the  hours  till  midnight  is  begun, 
And  till  each  star  its  central  course  has  run. 

"  Poet,  we  bear  thee  with  us  till  the  time, 
Spirits  can  know  without  the  aid  of  chime 
From  village  church,  or  proud  cathedral  spire: 
Such  as  in  thy  land  equal  Babel's  dome, 
In  vain  design  to  reach  the  Almighty's  home, 
Where  mortals  with  religion  may  aspire, 
And  godliness  o  go."     She  ceas'd  and  gave 
The  signal,  that  was  heard  below  the  wave. 

And  now  a  chariot  stood  upon  the  edge 
Of  the  bright  river's  willow  fringed  sedge. 
'Twas  formed  of  pearl  and  opal,  who  e  clear  dyes 


200  ON  THii  HUi;S()i^. 

Are  brilliant  as  the  rainbow's.     Sapphire  too 
And  silver  lent  their  aid.     Shells  of  each  hue 
Were  curiously  inlaid,  and  met  the  eyes 
As  things  unearthly  there.     Such  was  that  car 
That  shot  its  rich  effulgency  afar. 

'Twas  lined  with  down,  soft  as  the  swan's  white 

breast, 
And  far  more  glorious  tinted  than  the  crest 
Of  any  bird  that  skims  the  earth  or  main. 
Once  a  white  plant  that  'neath  the  waters  grew, 
Which  the  young  nymphs  that  dwelt  there,  gath- 
ering knew 
To  weave  into  their  vestments,  and  to  stain 
With   tints    pellucid,    which    they   snatch    from 

air 
Or  from  the  tide,  when  sunbeams  wanton  there. 

Four  flying  dolphins  to  the  car  were  reined. 
Whose  eagerness  could  scarcely  be  restrained, 
So  much  they  longed  again  to  cleave  the  flood, 
And  lave  their  golden  scales,  if  but  in  spray 
Made  by  the  chariot  o'er  the  moonlit  way. 
They  wait  the  spirit's  entrance,  as  they  would 
With  that  aerial  burden  lighter  go. 
Spurning  the  azure  depths  that  lie  below. 


ON    THE    HUDSON.  201 

The  poet  and  the  spirit  press'd  the  car, 
Which  soon  the  sportive  dolphins  whirl' J  afar; 
Those  dolphins  bred  in  the  Ionian  sea, 
And  thence  were  sent  an  offering  to  the  maid, 
Who  the  bright  current  of  the  Hudson  sway'd. 
The  silvery  rein  obeying,  on  they  flee — 
They  track  the  beauteous  river's  winding  course, 
That  not  an  eddy  stirr'd,  e'en  from  its  source. 

Still  as  a  sheet  of  azure  sheen  it  lay, 

Reflecting  but  the  moon's  translucent  ray 

That  broke  through  amber  clouds,  that  veil'd  her 

brow. 
Or  only  sought  to  veil,  since  brighter  shone 
Hei  presence  canopied  as  by  a  throne  : 
While  the  resplendent  orbs  prepare  to  throw 
Their  planetary  lustre  on  the  view, 
Burstinor  interminable  ether  through. 

Rapidly  on  the  gleaming  chariot  went, 
A  flash  of  inessential  splendor  sent 
Athwart  the  tide,  and  blended  with  the  light 
The  kindling  stars  flung  forth,  and  yellow  moon- 
What  to  a  poet  could  be  such  a  boon, 
As  thus  to  ride  the  waters  as  a  sprite ; 


02  ON    THE    HUDSON. 

With  such  a  sky  above  and  earth  below, 
Thus  o'er  the  glittering  waters,  thus  to  go? 

To  see  the  beauty  of  that  starry  eve, 
To  list  the  melody  the  spirits  weave 
At  that  still  hour :  to  watch  the  varying  scene; 
Here  towering  rock  frowning  in  grand  array, 
Whence  springs  the  eagle  forth  to  welcome  day ; 
There  valleys  slanting  to  .the  margin  green, 
With  vistas  form'd  by  the  cleft  rock's  tall  peaks, 
Through  which    a  flood    of   moonlight    splendor 
breaks. 

Now  the  thick  forests  touch'd  with  autumn  hues. 
And    the   wild    flowers   trembling  with  diamond 

dews, 
On  the  fair  islets,  which  their  car  went  by 
In  magic  speed,  along  the  tide  that  delv'd 
Between  its  lofty  banks,  that  then  were  shelvM 
To  admit  of  all  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 
The  distant  mountains  rearing  their  proud  brows 
O'er  all  the  view,  that  tremulously  glows. 

Glows  in  the  silvery  light,  that  not  alone 
On  the  wide  ripples  oi  the  river  shone, 


ON    THE    HUDSON.  202 

But  on  morass,  and  wood,  and  valley  lay. 
Oh  on  the  poet's  heart  a  rapture  broke. 
That  every  inmost  slumbering  chord  awoke. 
It  seem'd  as  though  his  soul  imbibed  a  ray 
Of  that  ethereal  light,  that  all  around 
The  gentle  earth,  with  shining  cycles  bound. 

Or  did  the  aerial  spirit  by  his  side, 
That  gave  him  thus  immortally  to  glide 
Over  her  moist  dominions,  on  him  pour 
More  than  the  spell  unearthly  things  to  view, 
But  the  glad  gush  of  spiritual  feelings  too ; 
For  then  the  poet  deem'd  that  one  such  hour 
Of  brief  enchanted  happiness,  were  worth 
A  thousand  years  of  feelings  but  of  earth. 

The  spirit  now  lent  him  her  aid  to  see 
Things  that,  to  us,  must  lie  in  mystery ; 
Visions  unborn  of  time,  which  future  years 
Shall  make  reality,  and  men  shall  know 
Sti'ipp'd   of    the    strangeness,    that    events    wil 

throw 
Into  accordance.     What,  shall  blood  and  tears 
Deface  these  smiling  sites ;  or  shall  men  learn 
The  beacon-torch  of  virtue  to  discern  ? 


204  ON    THE    HUDSON. 

But  that  alone  to  guide  them  o'er  the  steep 
And  shelving  rocks,  hid  by  the  ocean  deep 
Of  life;  away — the  theme  we  may  not  tell. 
Suffice  it  that  the  poet's  heart  was  glad, 
And  could  it  be,  if  what  he  heard  were  sad  ? 
And  now  they  touch'd  the  land,  and    reach'd  u 

dell— 
A  wild,  enchanted  spot,  where  fairies  stood, 
Watching  their  coming  from  the  illumin'd  flood 

The  sprites  and  fays  their  sportive  glee  began ; 
From  heart  to  heart  the  genial  transport  ran, 
Unmix'd  with  fear,  or  pain,  or  doubt,  or  dread 
That  mar  our  earthly  revelry.     The  song 
From  fairy  harps  floated  the  air  along, 
And  on  the  breez*8s  melting  music  shed ; 
While  odors  that  no  censers  seem'd  to  hold, 
A  stream  of  luscious  fragrance  upward  roU'd. 

And  dance  went  round,  a  graceful  flying  maze 
From  tiny  feet,  that  changing  glancing  rays 
Gave  out  around  ;  for  o'er  their  persons  shone 
A  light,  that  from  the  kindling  stars  is  caught, 
When  with  their  lustre  most  the  skies  is  fraught, 
But  all  their  brightest  wassailage — oh,  none 


ON    TH2    ilUDSO-V.  205 

That  ever  has  beheld  it,  may  reveal ; 
Or  gone  for  ever  is  his  earthly  weal, 

Waking  the  fairies'  ire.     "  Hark  !  hark,  away ! 
Each  to  his  mission — now  no  longer  stay. 
Go  cleave  the  air,  or  skim  the  liquid  main, 
Where  its  proud  billows  dash  with  frantic  roar, 
Or  break  in  idle  bubbles  on  the  shore. 
Go  do  your  errands  on.     Then  here  again 
To  taste  the  luscious  feast,  and  sip  the  bowl, 
And  stay  the  winged  moments  ere  they  roll." 

So  spake  the  fairy  queen,  and  stretched  her  wand 
The  magic  sceptre  sparkling  in  her  hand. 
They  wait  no  new  command  to  disappear. 
And  where  that  elfin  band  so  lately  stood. 
Falls  but  the  shadow  of  the  distant  wood. 
No  sound  but  of  the  river  murmurs  near, 
Where  late  ethereal  melody  was  heard. 
And  every  leaf  unearthly  chorus  stirred. 

18 


206 


CHARADES. 


I. 


My  first  slew  Pharaoh  and  his  host, — 
My  next  has  many  a  fortune  lost, — 
My  whole — more  fatal  still  than  either- 
It  smashed  Napoleon  altogether ! 


II. 


I  am  not  deceiving,  believe  me,  my  dear, 
That  all  are  my  first,  who  to  thee  are  not  near ; 
My  next  may  be  anything — choose  what  you  like, 
And  say  what  you  please — it  will  suit  it  alike. 
My  whole  of  this  trifling  charade  is  the  price, 
You  will  not  give  more,  it  you  take  my  advice. 

SPHINX. 


i 


207 


THE  ENGLISH  FLOWEa. 


Not  the  proud  ros^  of  England's  glorious  crown- 
Not  France's  flower-de-luce  of  stainless  sheen — 
Not  Scotland's  boastful  ennblem  of  renown — 
Not  Erin's  hallowed  shamrock  green — 

Not,  as  the  laurel  prodigal  of  power, 
To  deck  the  blood-stained  victor's  triumph  high, — 
Not  as  the  proud  Narcissus,  hapless  flower, 
Of  self-enamored  vanity  to  die, — r 

No  cultured  plant  of  rare  exotic  birth. 
With  flaunting  hues  unconscious  of  perfume,— 
Meek  offspring  of  thy  parent  earth, — 
Art  thou,  sweet  bud  of  native  bloom,— 

Pure  as  the  lily  of  some  rural  glade. 

That  bursts  unnoted  frOm  the  velvet  sod. 

Yet  sends,  from  tufted  leaves  its  head  that  shade, 

A  tribute  of  rare  odors  up  to  God. 


208  THE    ENGLISH    FLOWER. 

Oh !  born  to  cheer,  to  comfort,  and  to  bless. 
To  lend  to  happiness  a  deeper  charm, 
To  banish  sorrow  with  thy  pure  caress. 
Holy,  and  sweet,  and  innocent,  and  warm — 

May  nought  of  lasting  grief  thy  smiles  efface, 
Blight  thy  rich  cheek,  or  dim  thy  laughing  eyes. 
Long  mayest  thou  witch  the  world  with  that  fair 

face. 
Then  bloom  for  ever  in  the  eternal  skies. 

ZETA. 


200 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER. 


BY    GRENVILLE    MELLEN. 


Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy. 

WORDSWCKTH 


I. 


A  YOUNG  and  gentle  mother, 

She  bows  above  her  boy, 
And  a  tear  is  in  her  downcast  eye, 

But  'tis  the  tear  of  joy — 
Of  one  whose  few  fair  summers 

On  golden  wings  have  sped, 
Like  childhood's  dreams  of  Paradise, 

Above  her  sainted  head. 
Loved,  ere  her  life's  flush  morning 

Had  kindled  into  day, 
And  worshipped,  as  she  wooed  the  flowers 

That  bloomed  around  her  way, 
0  18* 


210  THE   YOl/.<o.    iMOTHER 

By  one  whose  warm  affections 
On  her  wondrous  beauty  hung, 

And  their  first  taintless  tribute  gave 
To  the  shrine  to  which  they  clung! 

II. 

A  young  and  gentle  mother — 

Still  beautiful,  but  pale 
With  sleepless  but  unwearied  watch, 

Alike  through  joy  and  wail. 
A  mother  ! — yet  believing 

Life's  duties  scarce  begun — 
Whose  childhood  seemed  of  yesterday 

In  its  unclouded  sun  ; 
So  early  had  the  story 

Of  idol  Love  been  told — 
So  early  had  her  virgin  heart 

Been  gathered  to  its  fold ! 

111. 

And  he  who  won  her — where  is  he, 
In  this  her  day  of  pride, 
.    When  every  hope  she  claimed  before, 
By  this  grew  dim  and  died ! 


THE   YOUNG   MOTHER.  311 

So  priceless  was  the  treasure 

Her  throbbing  bosom  bore, 
So  centered  was  her  spirit  now 

On  one  she  could  adore ! 
Where  is  he  ! — Ah  !  her  vision 

Is  of  shadowy  ships  and  seas — • 
And  for  him  the  unuttered  prayer 

Is  poured  on  bended  knees. 
Each  day  in  thought  she  follows 

His  stormy  ocean  track, 
And  every  dreamy  midnight  still 

Her  pillow  brings  him  back. 
For  he — for  distant  regions 

Torn  early  from  her  side, — 
Had  parted,  with  his  heart  in  tears, 

From  that  outsobbing  bride. 

IV. 

Long  time  afar  he  lingered, 

And  oft  the  message  came 
Of  fadeless  love — and  of  cruel  fate 

The  tale  was  still  the  same. 
Years  fled — and  still  he  wandered — 

In  one  long  dream  of  home, 
And  prattling  voices  round  its  hearth—     • 

An  exile,  doomed  to  roam. 


212  THE   YOUNG    MOTIIEK. 

V. 

At  length  her  leaping  spirit 

Its  promised  bliss  had  found, 
And  she  heard  its  pulses  quick  and  loud 

Beat  to  the  welcome  sound. 
He  on  the  bounding  waters 

Had  cast  himself  once  more, 
To  greet  that  home,  and  hearth,  and  bride: 

That  rose  above  their  roar 
Like  lights  amid  a  tempest — 

Bright  beacons  of  the  land, 
Where  all  we  love  shall  hail  us  soon, 

A  joy-inspiring  band  ! 

VI. 

*Twas  then  I  saw  that  mother. 

And  babe  with  silken  hair, 
And  all  a  mother's  pride  and  hope, 

Just  dashed  with  fear,  was  there. 
Her  head  upon  his  temple 

Was  stooped  in  pensive  rest, 
Mingling  its  light,  uncumbered  locks 

With  those  that  veiled  her  breast ; 
•     Her  eye,  just  dropped  in  shadow, 

Looked  melancholy  down. 


THE    YOUNG    MOTHER.  213 

And  the  tear  that  glittered  from  its  depths 

Was  not  of  grief  alone — 
But  the  still  look  of  thankfulnes' 

That  o'er  her  features  fell, 
Lent  even  to  the  tears  a  beam 

That  told  you  all  was  well ! 
One  arm  around  her  idol 

Protectingly  was  flung, 

The  other,  as  of  one  in  dreams. 

Beside  her  aimless  hung. — 
*  *  * 

VII. 

O  Innocence  and  Beauty  ! — 

And  Youth,  with  all -its  flowers, 
When  they  together  round  us  come 

What  a  heritage  is  ours ! 
Who  ever  dreams  a  sepulchre 

O'er  such  can  darkly  close, 
Or  the  heart's  sun  e'er  set  in  clouds, 

That  robed  in  lustre  rose ! 

*  4e  » 

VIII. 

Alas !  that  gentle  mother — 
I  saw  her  not  again, 


214  THE    YOUNG    MOTHER. 

Till,  in  my  village  wanderings, 

I  joined  the  burial  train. 
They  told  me,  as  we  silent  wheeled 

Among  the  verdant  graves, 
That  he,  her  first — last  hope  on  earth, 

Was  snatched  into  the  waves ! — 
And,  ever  after,  that  her  cheek. 

Like  her  infant's  eye,  grew  dim, 
And  her  waning  life  was  but  a  prayer, 

Or  quiet,  lonely  hymn. — 
And  thus  her  passing  spirit 

Beheld  her  infant's  go, 
'Till  all  that  lit  her  pilgrimage 

Was  shattered  at  a  blow. 
Then,  pointing  to  the  tomb,  her  feet 

Began  their  faltering  way 
Tlirough  earth's  last  farewell  faded  bloom, 

To  Immortality ! 


215 


THE  ISLE  OF  REST. 


Some  of  the  islands  where   the   fancied  parad.se  of  the 
Indians  was  situated,  were  believed  to  be  in  Lake  Supprior 


I. 


That  blessed  isle  lies  far  away — 

'Tis  many  a  weary  league  from  land, 
Where  billows  in  their  golden  play 
Dash  on  its  sparkling  sand. 
No  tempest's  wrath  or  stormy  waters'  roar 
Disturb  the  echoes  of  that  peaceful  shore. 


II. 


There  the  light  breezes  lie  at  rest, 

Soft  pillowed  on  the  glassy  deep ; 
Pale  cliffs  look  on  the  waters'  breast, 
And  watch  their  silent  deep. 
There  the  wild  swan  with  plumed  and  glossy  wing, 
Sits  lone  and  still  beside  the  bubbling  spring. 


216  THE    ISLE    CF    REST. 

III. 

And  far  within,  in  murmurs  heara, 

Comes,  with  the  wind's  low  whispers  there 
The  music  of  the  mounting  bird, 
Skimming  the  clear  bright  air. 
The  sportive  brook,  with  free  and  silvery  tide, 
Comes  wildly  dancing  from  the  green  hill-side. 


IV. 


The  sun  there  sheds  his  noontide  beam 

On  oak-crowned  hill  and  leafy  bowers ; 
And  gaily  by  the  shaded  stream 
Spring  forth  the  forest  flowers. 
The  fountain  flings  aloft  its  showery  spray, 
With  rainbows  deck'd,  that  mock  the  hues  of  day 


V. 


And  when  the  dewy  morning  breaks, 
A  thousand  tones  of  rapture  swell ; 
A  thrill  of  life  and  motion  wakes 
Through  hill,  and  plain,  and  dell. 
The  wild  bird  trills  his  song — and  from  the  wood 
The  red  deer  bounds  to  drink  beside  the  flood. 


THE    ISLIi    OF    REST.  217 

VI. 

There,  when  the  sun  sets  on  the  sea, 

And  gilds  the  forest's  waving  crown, 
Strains  of  inimorial  haripony 

To  those  sweet  shades  come  down. 
Bright    and    mysterious  forms  that    green  shore 

throng, 
And  pour  in  evening's  ear  their  charmed  song. 

VII. 

E^en  on  this  cold  and  cheerless  shore, 

While  all  is  dark  and  quiet  near, 
The  huntsman,  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 
That  melody  may  hear. 
And  see,  faint  gleaming  o'er  the  waters'  foam, 
The  glories  of  that  isle,  his  future  home. 

19  E.  P.   E< 


218 


THE   ITALIAN  LOVER, 


Steeped    in  a   mild  unclouded  moonlight,  the 
storied  domes,  arches  and  pinnacles  of  Venice, 
once  mistress  of  the  Adriatic,  and  still  the  most 
interesting  of  Italian   cities,  lay  sleeping  in  sur- 
passing loveliness.     Venice,  like  Melrose,  is  best 
viewed  when  lit  up  by  the  pale  lunar  beam  which 
permits  the  dark  shadows  of  its  palaces  to  hide 
the  decay  of  their  crumbling  foundations — which 
softens  its  few  faults  of  architecture,  and  blends 
each  airy  and  ethereal  turret  with  the  dusk  of  the 
deep  sky  itself.     The  soft  illumination,  mellowing 
and  mingling  their  wave- worn  halls  and  arches, 
awakes  the  luxurious  inhabitants  to  life  and  ani- 
mation.    Dark   gondolas,  filled  with  masks  and 
music  begin  to  glide  along  the  shadowy  canals, 
marking  the  course  they  take  by  the  undulating 
reflection  of  their  lamps  in  the  water.     Here  and 
there,  from  the  windows  of  some  haughty  palace, 
whence  a  flood   of  radiance  is  poured  upon  the 
niwlit,  contrastini?  with  the  moonbeams  as  it  falls 


Trili    ITALIAN    LOVER*  21Sl 

UDon  the  stream  without,  may  be  heard  the  re- 
sounding din  of  instrumental  music,  timing  the 
steps  of  dancers  in  the  halls  within. 

Where  the  shadow  fell  darkest  from  a  mighty 
pile,  shrouding  all  below,  a  noble  maiden  bent 
from  a  balcony,  and  listened  to  a  lover's  serenade. 
She  stood,  screened  from  the  light,  and  motionless, 
rapt  in  mute  attention,  while  the  cavalier  beneath 
her  struck  his  guitar  with  matchless  skill,  and 
sanj{  a  canzonet  that  breathed  the  very  soul  of 
passion.  At  length  the  music  died  meltingly 
away,  and  the  lady  was  about  to  retire  from  the 
balcony. 

"  Hist,  Contessa  !"  whispered  the  singer  of  the 
gondola  ;   "  you  will  not  leave  me  so  suddenly  V 

"  I  cannot  converse  with  a  stranger,  though  he 
be  masked,"  answered  the  lady,  "  for  it  is  not 
carnival  time." 

"  You  jest,  beautiful  Antonia,"  replied  the  cav- 
alier. "  You  would  not  have  listened  to  my  sere- 
nade had  you  not  recognized  my  voice." 

"  You  are  right,  Count,"  said  the  lady,  with  a 
light  laugh.  "I  know  you.  But  be  brief;  for 
my  uncle  is  within,  and  I  dare  not  delay,  Why 
are  you  here  ?" 

"  Why,   Antonia  ?      Do  you  ask  me  ?      I  am 


220  THE    ITALIAN    LOVER. 

going  to  quit  Venice  to-night:  it  is  like  quitting 
hope,  for  I  know  not  when  I  shall  see  you  again." 

"  Then  you  will  not  be  at  Rome  at  the  car- 
nival ?  I  am  going  thither  with  my  uncle,"  said 
the  lady. 

"  If  I  dared,"  muttered  the  caviller  with  hesi 
tation.    "  But  it  shall  be  so,  Antonia — I  will  brave 
every  thing.  At  Rome,  then,  we  will  meet  again — 
at  the  carnival." 

"  Fail  not !"  said  the  Venetian  lady. 

"  I  will  meet  you  again  if  I  live,"  replied  the 
cavalier  passionately.  "  And  if  I  die,  vvhy,  my 
spirit  shall  be  with  you." 

Here  a  slight  sound  was  heard  from  the  apart- 
ment behind  the  balcony.  The  lady  wished  her 
lover  a  hasty  good-night,  and  vanished.  The 
serenader  gave  an  order  to  his  attendant  in  a  low 
voice,  and  as  the  light  barque  shot  from  the 
gloomy  shadow  of  the  palace  into  a  bright  streak 
of  moonlight,  a  voice  from  the  stern  commenced 
the  favorite  "  buona  notte"  of  the  Venetian  gon- 
doliers. The  youth  and  maiden  were  the  Count 
Carriale  and  the  beautiful  Contessa  Antonia  Ga- 
zella.     We  shall  rejoin  them  at  the  carnival. 


The  lady  Antonia  appeared   at  Rome  before 


THE    ITALIAN    LOVER.  221 

the  commencement  of  the  carnival,  and,  as  she 
was  rich  and  a  celebrated  beauty,  her  arrival  at 
the  eternal  city  was  soon  known  and  talked  about. 
Even  the  English  at  Rome  were  infected  by  the 
general  enthusiasm,  and  forgot  their  national  taci- 
turnity when  they  saw  the  Gazella  in  her  open 
carriage  on  the  Corso.  She  was  the  theme  of 
general  admiration.  Artists  and  officers,  counts 
and  cardinals,  Britons  and  Americans,  sounded 
the  praises  of  the  fair  Contessa,  and  not  a  few  of 
the  impoverished  nobility,  fortune-hunters  by  pro- 
fession, ranked  themselves  in  the  train  of  the 
lovely  Antonia. 

But  cold  was  the  maid,  and  though  legions  ad- 
vanced, 
All  drilled  by  Ovidean  art, 
Though  they  languished  and  ogled,  protested  and 

danced. 
Like  shadows  they  came,  and  like  shadows  they 

glanced 

From  the  cold  polished  ice  of  her  heart. 

In  fact  the  beautiful  Contessa  turned  a  deaf  ear 
to  every  compliment ;  and  if  she  listened  for  a 
moment  tj  the  Baron  Von  Konigsmarke,  a  lieu- 

19* 


222  THE    ITALIAN    LOVER. 

tenant  colonel  of  Austrian  hussars,  it  was  because 
ihe  haughty  noble  professed  to  be  actuated  by  a 
pure  friendship ;  and,  moreover,  being  a  man  of 
repulsive  manners  and  a  dead  shot,  served  to  keep 
more  troublesome  admirers  at  a  distance.  But 
even  the  Baron  Von  Konigsmarke,  handsome,  tal- 
ented; mustachioed,  and  blazing  with  orders,  was 
forced  to  give  way,  at  the  opening  of  the  carnival, 
to  a  nameless  mask,  who  attached  himself  insep- 
arably to  the  lovely  lady. 

In  no  other  Italian  city  does  the  carnival  effect 
so  great  a  revolution  as  it  does  in  Rome.  From 
whatever  causes  it  arises — -whether  from  the  effect 
of  dissipation,  the  force  of  superstition,  or  the 
daily  contemplation  of  vast  and  venerable  ruins — 
the  dwellers  in  the  Holy  City  are  grave  to  a  prov- 
erb, except  during  the  brief  saturnalia  licensed 
by  the  Romish  Church.  Then,  indeed,  they  rush 
to  the  opposite  extreme  of  the  wildest  gaiety 
and  the  utmost  extravagance.  The  carnival  pre- 
sents the  singular  spectacle  of  a  whole  city  sys- 
tematically mad.  It  is  a,  fesia  for  the  noble,  a 
"  beggar's  opera "  for  the  mendicants — and  it  is 
hard  to  say  which  of  the  two  classes  enjoy  it 
most.  Fiddling,  fluting,  dancing,  drinking,  driv- 
ing,  racing,   intrigue,   and   pelting   with   comfits, 


THE    ITALIAN    LOVER.  223 

are  a  few  of  the  most  innocent  and  intellectual 
enjoyments  of  the  reign  of  misrule. 

The  comi^encement  of  the  saturnalia  brought 
an  unfeigned  pleasure  to  the  gay  Antonia,  not 
only  because  she  entered  heartily  into  the  fun  of 
the  practical  jests,  but  because  she  knew  that 
there  beat  beside  her  in  her  carriac^e  that  to  which 
no  passionate  Italian  is  indifferent — a  youthful  and 
noble  heart,  warm,  happy,  and  devoted  to  herself. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  companion  of  her 
festive  hours  was  the  Count  Carriale.  The  gai- 
eties opened  with  brighter  auspices  than  ever; 
for  not  one  wretched  criminal  had  been  led  to 
the  block,  to  pour  out  his  life  for  the  edification 
of  the  assembled  gazers,  according  to  the  tender 
edict  of  the  sovereign  pontiff,  who  wished,  by  the 
wholesome  terror  of  an  execution,  to  withhold  the 
multitude  from  the  perpetration  of  those  crimes 
to  which  the  license  of  a  carnival  micrht  lead 
them.  His  holiness,  we  are  credibly  informed, 
was  much  chagrined  to  think  that  no  felon  was 
in  prison  whom,  by  a  little  extension  of  pontifical 
justice,  he  could  send  in  safety  to  the  guillotine. 
Unfortunately  for  his  wishes,  the  pleasures  began 
without  the  zest  of  a  single  death  by  the  axe ; 


i 


224  THE    ITALIAN    LOVER. 

they  did  not  close,  however,   without  a  serious 
accident. 

As  the  Count  Carriale  was  whispering  some 
tender  words  in  the  ear  of  his  beautiful  mistress, 
the  horses  attached  to  their  carriage  took  fright, 
and  they  ran  at  full  speed  through  the  crowded 
streets,  putting  to  flight  the  gay  masqueraders  and 
their  motley  equipages  wherever  they  appeared. 
At  length,  in  turning  a  sharp  corner,  the  vehicle 
was  overset,  and  the  lady  and  the  Count  thrown 
with  considerable  violence  to  the  pavement.  The 
formel",  fortunately,  was  unhurt ;  but  a  captain  of 
the  papal  horseguards,  who  had  dismounted  to 
render  his  assistance,  perceived  with  dismay  that 
a  stream  of  blood  flowed  from  the  head  of  the 
wounded  Count.  The  compassionate  old  soldier 
endeavored  to  remove  the  mask  of  the  sufferer; 
but  the  Count  seemed  sinirularlv  unwillins;  to 
expose  his  face.  The  mask  was  at  length  drawn 
ofl*  by  force;  and  then  it  was  that  the  dragoon, 
with  a  cry  of  surprise  and  indignation,  recognized 
in  the  pretended  Count  Carriale,  the  lover  of 
Antonia  at  Venice  and  at  Rome,  the  features  of 
Maffeo  Accaioli,  a  formidable  brigand  whom  he 
had  recently  encountered  on  the  mountains.     The 


THE    ITALIAN    LOVER.  225 

annunciation  was  no  sooner  made  than  the  beau- 
tiful Contessa  fainted. 


How  pleased  were  all  the  Romans  when  it  was 
announced  that  his  holiness  the  Pope  had,  by  a 
special  exercise  of  his  power,  ordained  that  the 
condemned  brigand,  the  formidable  Accaioli, 
should  be  guillotined  during  the  carnival.  How 
kind  of  him  !  The  ladies  were  in  ecstacies. 
Even  the  Countess  Gazella  was  far  from  lament- 
ing this  ungenerous  precipitation,  for  a  woman 
once  duped  never  forgives  her  deceiver  •  and  as 
she  had  already  commenced  an  intimacy  with  the 
Baron  Von  Konigsmarke,  she  adopted  the  opinion 

Mi 


of  the  old  song  : — 


"  'Tis  well  to  be  off  with  the  old  love 
Before  you  are  on  with  the  new." 


-^ 


A  vast  crowd  assembled  to  witness  the  dying  dMj^ 
agonies  of  the  brigand.  He  was  escorted  to  the  - 
scaffold  by  the  papal  dragoons,  and  a  long  file  of 
penitents  in  their  robes  of  sackcloth,  bound  at  the 
waist  with  cords,  their  gloomy  eyes  peering 
through  holes  cut  for  the  purpose  in  their  cowls. 
These  pious  monks  begged  alms  of  all  good 
P 


n 


226  THE    ITALIAN    LOVER. 

Catholics  to  aid  their  endeavors  in  getting  the 
soul  of  the  condemned  through  purj^atory.  The 
prisoner  entered  on  the  scaffold,  attended  by  his 
confessor.  He  kissed  the  cross,  he  received  tlie 
last  consolations  of  religion,  he  looked  firmly  on 
the  multitude,  and  lay  down  to.  die — the  axe  de- 
scended, and  it  was  all  over. 

His  eminence,  the  Cardinal  Riario,  sat  in  secret 
consultatioiLiyith  the  confessor  of  the  dying  brig- 
and.     He  held  a  miniature  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,"  he  cried,  "  these  are  the  lovely  features 
of  Ptosa  Vanelli — Rosa,  whom  I  deceived  and 
abandoned  to  despair." 

"  The  Cardinal's  hat  and  the  scarlet  robe  cover 
a  multitude  of  sins,"  replied  the  penitent,  sneer- 
inglv. 

"  I  could  laugh  at  your  bitterness,"  said  the 
Cardinal,  "  did  I  not  hold  in  my  hand  this  sad 
memorial.  Tell  me,  from  whom  did  you  receive 
it?" 

"From  her  son." 

"  Her  son  !"  cried  the  Cardinal,  starting  to  his 
feet ;  "  mine  as  well  as  hers !  Would  to  God  I 
could  see  his  face !  Speak,  Gregory,  where  did 
you  part  with  him  ?" 


THE    ITALIAN    LOVER.  227 

"  On  the  scaffold !"  said  the  penitent,  fixing 
his  savage  eyes  upon  the  Cardinal.  "  MafTeo 
Accaioii  was  your  son  and  the  child  of  her  I 
loved.  What  say  you  ?  Are  not  Rosa  and  my- 
self avenged  ?" 

The  Cardinal  heard  but  the  first  part  of  the 
sentence,  for  ere  it  was  concluded,  he  had  fallen 
back  in  his  huge  chair,  helpless  and  unconscious: 
still  his  fixed  and  rayless  eyes,  half  starting  from 
their  sockets,  glared  on  the  penitent  with  an  ex- 
pression that  would  have  appalled  a  feebler  heart. 

"  The  comedy  is  over,"  said  the  monk.  "  His 
eminence  is  dead." 


228 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  HORNET. 


I. 


The  summer  sun  is  on  the  wave, 

The  zephyr  seeks  the  sea, 
And  ripples,  dancing  round  her,  lave 

The  bulwark  of  the  free. 
How  beautiful  and  brave  a  thing!" 

The  rising  swell  she  rides. 
While  sun  and  shade  uniting  fling 

Their  colors  on  her  sides. 


II. 


Her  decks,  on  which  the  sunbeams  play, 

Are  girt  by  many  a  gun, 
That  guard  our  fame  by  night  and  day, 

Where  laurels  green  are  won. 
And  ever  may  she  lift  on  high  ' 

The  banner  of  our  glory. 
Bearing  in  every  azure  sky 

The  stars  that  tell  our  story. 


TUF  FA  CF  OF  THE  HORNET.  229 


III. 


Aid  though  the  tempest  clouds  may  ower 

Above  the  angry  deep, 
And  storms,  with  wild  convulsive  power, 

Around  that  vessel  sweep, 
While  there  is  yet  one  shattered  sail 

To  flutter  in  the  blast, 
Oh  may  she  bear  through  gloom  and  gale 

That  banner  to  the  last. 

IV. 

But  why  discourse  of  things  like  these  ? 

No  cloud  its  shadow  flings, 
And  kindly  blows  the  western  breeze 

To  lend  the  sea-bird  wings. 
The  lately-flapping  sail  it  swells,  • 

And  sings  along  the  tide, 
As  musical  as  village  bells, 

That  hail  a  happy  bride. 


V. 


The  warlike  ship  yields  gracefully 
Before  the  welcome  wind, 
20 


230  THE  FATE  OF  THE  HOKIsL 

And,  slowly  fading  in  her  lee, 

The  land  is  left  behind. 
One  loud  hurrah,  that  rent  the  air, 

Broke  from  her  iron  men. 
Alas  !  that  crew  and  vessel  ne'er 

Shall  enter  port  again. 

VI. 

Not  when  the  guns  in  fury  sent 

Their  message  to  the  foe — 
When  clouds  were  in  the  fimament, 

And  surges  were  below — 
When  rose  the  wild  and  loud  hurrah 

Of  ocean's  stormy  strife — 
Amidst  the  crash  of  plank  and  spar 

The  crew  gave  up  their  life: 

VII. 

But  when  the  sky  was  calm  and  blue, 
And  far  as  eye  could  see, 

No  hostile  ship  or  squadron  threw 
A  shadow  on  the  sea. 

At  such  a  tide  and  such  an  hour 
Was  heard  a  rushing  sound, 


THE    FATE    OF    *^HE    HORNET.  231 

And,  lashed  by  a  resistless  power, 
The  waves  grew  white  around. 

VIII. 

Ere  pious  lips  could  form  a  prayer, 

Or  feeble  ones  a  cry, 
The  heaving  sea  had  ceased  to  bear 

That  gallant  ship  on  high. 
Gone  were  the  lovely  and  the  brave. 

Old  ocean  was  alone, 
And  only  gave  to  mark  their  grave 

A  bubble  and  a  moan. 


232 


A  VISION. 

She  hovers  round  my  dreams  ! 

Like  the  soft  early  beams. 

When  day-light  through  my  lattice  streams, 

Thoughts  of  her  beauty  greet  my  waking  hours ; 

Like  fragrance  stolen  by  zephyr  from  the  flowers^ 

Or  odors  from  the  spice-trees  pressed  by  showers 

Which  fall  in  summer  time 

In  that  delicious  clime, — 

Told  in  melodious  chime 
By  Eastern  poets — where  the  bulbul  sings 
And  flutters  near  the  rose  his  charmed  wings. — 
On  my  delightful  sense  her  memory  steals. 
And  the  deep  fountain  of  my  heart  unseals ! 
And  ofttimes,  Fancy,  gentle  sprite,  reveals 
Her  winning  smile,  her  form  of  artless  grace, 
So  like  to  life,  so  perfect  and  so  fair, 
That,  with  a  magic  pencil,  I  could  trace 

Her  picture  on  the  air ! 
Yes !  Fancy  is  the  Ariel  of  my  mind — 
And  I,  like  Prospero,  in  a  lonely  isle 

Far  distant  from  the  world's  dominions, 


A  VISION.  233 

My  solitary  days  and  nights  beguile 
[n  sending  out,  swift  as  careering  wind, 
My  messenger  with  starry  pinions — 
That  he  may  speed  and  find 
The  shapes  and  hues  of  beauty  which  adorn 
The  land,  the  unreal  land  where  he  was  born  ! 
Oh  then,  what  strange  enchantment  I  behold ! 
A  Fairy  palace,  buit  of  pearls  and  gold 
Upon  a  slope  of  emerald.     Myriads  swarm 
About  the  portal — myriad  creatures  bright 

As  the  intensest  light 
Of  phosphor  flame — small  as  the  motes  that  rise, 

When  the  sun's  beam  comes  warm 
From  its  far  throne  in  the  uncurtained  skies. 
Among  the  elves  and  fairies  moves  their  queen ; 
Tell  me,  dear  Fancy,  delicate  Ariel — say, 
Have  I  not  oft  a  like  expression  seen, 

An  eye,  a  brow,  illumined  by  a  ray" 
As  pure  and  soft  ?     Oh,  take  the  misty  screen 
That  hides  the  vision  from  my  view  away ! 
Alas  !  the  whole  has  faded. 
And  sober  Truth  has  shaded 
The  radiance  of  shapes  and  hues  ideal ; 
Yet,  in  that  loveliest  face, 
My  wakened  mind  can  trace 
ITow  perfect  a  resemblance  to  the  real ! 

20* 


234 


*l'JiL    THINK  OF  THEE,  LCVE!" 


Tll  think  of  thee,  love,  when  the  landscape  is  stilly 
And  the  soft  mist  is  floating  from  valley  and  hill ; 
When  the  mild,  rosy  beam  of  the  morning  I  see, 
I'll  think  of  thee,  dearest,  and  only  of  thee  ! 


rU  think  of  thee,  love,  when  the  first  sound  of  day 
Scares  the  bright-pinioned   bird  from  its  covert 

away; 
For  the  world's  busy  voice  has  no  music  for  me — 
I'll  think  of  thee,  dearest,  and  only  of  thee  ! 


I'll  think  of  thee,  love,  when  the  dark  shadows 

sleep 
On  the  billows  that  roll  o'er  the  emerald  deep  : 
Like  the  swift-speeding  gales,  every  thought  then 

will  be — 
I'll  think  of  thee,  dearest,  and  only  of  thee  ! 


i'll  think  (>o    -tiee,  love  !  235 

I'll  think  of  thee,  dearest,  while  thou  art  afar, 
And  I'll  liken  thy  smile  to  the  night's  fairest  star : 
As  the  ocean-shell  breathes  of  its  home  in  the 

sea — 
So  in  absence  my  spirit  will  murmur  of  thee ! 

p.  B. 

Boston,  July,  IbSb. 


"^^♦< 


COTTAGE  LIFE. 


Oh  !  happy  cottage  life, 
Far  from  foul  gain,  and  rude  ambitious  strife ! 

And  oh  thrice  happy  ye. 

Who  innocent  and  free 
Dwell  in  your  village  homes  with  plenty  rife ! 

Happy  to  watch  the  morn 
'Mid  rosy  clouds  in  the  rich  orient  born  ! 
Happy  to  fill  the  pail, 
In  some  sequestered  vale, 
Or  spin  the  fleece,  or  shell  the  golden  corn  ! 

Happy  your  friend  to  rear. 
Some  snowy  lamb,  or  weanling  heifer  dear — 
For  they  will  ne'er  forget. 
When  once  their  love  is  set, 
But  will  your  footsteps  follow,  far  and  near. 


COTTAGE    LIFE.  237 


Happy  to  live  at  ease 
*Mid  rural  blessings,  and  domestic  peace — 
.  Thrice  happy,  when  ye  die, 

Beside  your  sires  to  lie 
In  the  old  churchyard,  'neath  the  ancestral  trees. 


23« 


THE  GUARDIAN  WATCHEPw. 


My  little  girl  sleeps  on  my  arm  all  night, 

And  seldom  stirs,  save  when,  with  playful  wile, 

I  bid  her  turn  and  put  her  lip  to  mine — 

Which,  in  her  sleep,  she  does ;  and,  sometimes, 

then, 
Half  muttered  through  her  slumbers,  she  affirms, 
Her  love  for  me  is  boundless ;  and  I  take 
The  little  imp,  and,  closer  in  my  arms, 
Assure  her  by  my  action — for  my  lips 
Yield  me  no  utterance  then — that,  in  my  heart, 
She  is  the  treasured  jewel.     Tenderly, 
Hour  after  hour,  with  no  desire  of  sleep, 
I  watch  about  that  large  amount  of  hope. 
Until  the  stars  wane,  and  the  yellow  moon 
Walks  forth  into  the  night. 


239 


INTERROGATORIES. 


The  stars,  dear  Fanny,  were  out  last  night, 
And  the  moon  was  bright  on  high. 

And  the  silent  earth,  by  the  clear  cold  light, 
Looked  up  to  the  dark  blue  sky, — 

But  the  fairest  spot  on  her  face  so  white 
Was  the  grove  with  the  brook  hard  by ; 

Can  you  tell,  dear  Fanny,  what  might  it  be, 

That  the  stars  looked  down  on  so  pleasantly  ? 

There  stood  two  forms  by  that  moonlit  grove. 

In  the  night-air  damp  and  cold, 
And  one  was  lovely  and  meet  for  love. 

And  one  was  of  manly  mould  ; 
To  the  winking  stars,  in  their  arch  above. 

Was  a  gentle  secret  told. 
Can  you  say,  sweet  Fanny,  what  might  it  be 
Was  whispered  last  night  so  tenderly  ? 

A  sound — yet  not  of  a  spoken  word, 
But  softer  and  sweeter  in  tone, — 


240  INTERROGATORIES. 

Like  the  quick  low  note  of  a  startled  bird 

That  sleeps  on  its  nest  alone, — 
Once  and  again  that  sound  was  heard, 

As  of  lips  tc/gether  grown. 
Can  you  guess,  dear  Fanny,  what  might  it  be— 
The  sound  that  faltered  so  tenderly  ? 

I  turned  away  with  a  sad,  chilled  heart. 

From  that  happiest  spot  below, — 
For  I  felt  that  I  was  a  thing  apart, 

There  was  none  to  love  me  so ; 
And  the  one  for  whom  my  soul  founts  start 

Is  fro  ward  and  cold,  you  know. 
Can  you  think,  sweet  Fanny,  who  may  it  be 
That  my  thoughts  will  dwell  on  so  heavily  ? 

I  sometimes  dream  of  a  happier  lot, 

Of  a  heart  that  is  all  my  own, — 
Of  a  quiet  hearth,  and  a  vine-clad  cot, 

Where  peace  may  dwell  alone, — 
'  Where  sorrow  and  bitterness  enter  not. 

Or  vanish  at  love's  soft  tone; 
And  all  last  night  I  was  dreaming  of  you — 
Do  you  know,  dear  Fanny,  if  dreams  prove  true  ^ 


241 


GNADENHUTTEN. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  Moravians,  so 
much  distinguished  by  their  exertions  for  the  welfare  of  the 
most  hapless  portion  of  their  species,  established  a  mission- 
ary station  at  the  northern  base  of  the  Blue  Mountains,  in 
what  is  now  Northampton  county,  Pennsylvania,  a  few  miles 
from  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Mauch  Chunk.  This  station 
they  appropriately  termed, "  Gnadenhutten,"  or  "  The  House 
of  Grace." 

The  savage  race  which  then  inhabited  those  regions  were 
divided  in  sentiment  with  respect  to  their  benevolent  visitors. 
Some  regarded  them  with  veneration  ;  while  others,  and 
they  the  more  numerous  portion,  looked  upon  them  with  a 
malignant  suspicion,  which  resulted  in  a  midnight  attack, 
when  the  establishment  was  destroyed  by  fire  and  the  in 
Habitants,  male  and  female,  young  and  old,  butchered  1 

'TwAS  eve,  the  balmy  breath  of  flowers, 
Came  sweetly  floating  on  the  breeze  ; 
The  recent  rain-drops  gemmed  the  bowers, 
And  glistened  on  the  leafy  trees. 

And  far  into  the  eastern  sky 
The  growling  thunder-cloud  had  gone, 
Upon  whose  breast  of  inky  dye, 
The  radiant  bow  of  promise  shone. 
Q  21 


242  GNADENHUTTEN. 

The  setting  sun  beamed  broad  and  bnght, 
And  far  the  lengthening  shadows  cast ; 
On  Gnadenhutten's  tower-crown'd  height. 
He  lingered  long  to  look  his  last. 

And  never  had  his  parting  ray, 
To  light  a  lovlier  scene  been  given ; 
Since  first  he  trod  his  radiant  way, 
Across  the  azure  vault  of  heaven. 

For  not  on  hill,  and  vale,  and  stream, 
'And  glittering  leaf  and  sacred  tower 
Alone,  was  shed  his  evening  beam — 
It  lit  devotion's  hallowed  hour  : 

For  there  was  heard  the  solemn  bell, 
That  told  the  hour  of  rest  and  prayer ; 
There  sweetly  rose  the  anthem's  swell, 
And  holy  words  were  spoken  there. 

And  o'er  the  heaven-directing  page, 
The  man  of  God  enraptured  hung  ; 
While  wisdom's  aphorisms  sage. 
Distilled  like  honey  from  his  tongue. 


GNADE^-HUTTEN.  243 

And  there  the  forest-warrior  stood, 
With  bow  unstrung  and  humbled  pride; 
With  longing  soul  for  heavenly  food, 
The  dark-brown  matron  pressed  his  side. 

And  tottering  age,  and  vigorous  youth, 
And  childhood  with  its  steadfast  gaze, 
Heard  wondrous  words  of  heavenly  truth ; 
Vnd  knelt  in  prayer  and  joined  in  praise. 

And  O !  a  holy  look  was  given, 

To  him  who  bent  that  book  above ; 

His  brow  was  bright  with  light  from  heaven ; 

His  soul  with  heaven's  all  brightening  love. 

Nor  was  it  that  he  loved  to  roam, 
He  crossed  the  pathless  ocean  o'er ; 
Nor  yet  to  find  a  fairer  home, 
Left  he  his  own  loved  native  shore. 

It  was  to  point  the  forest  sons, 
Up  to  the  radiant  throne  of  God  ; 
And  show  those  dark,  benighted  ones. 
The  way  through  Christ's  atoning  blood ; 


2^4  GNADENHUTTEN. 

That  far  into  the  desert  wild, 
From  the  refined  abodes  of  men, 
With  his  loved  wife  and  only  child. 
He  sought  that  distant  forest  glen. 

That  matron's  brow  was  vounff  and  fair. 
Half  hid  'neath  locks  of  golden  sheen; 
And  lovely  as  a  thing  of  air, 
Was  little  rosy  Wilhelmine. 

With  wavy  curls  of  flaxen  hair  ; 

And  forehead  rising  pure  and  high  ; 

And  breast  as  mountain's  snow-wreath  fair; 

And  eyes  like  stars  in  winter  sky. 

Buoyant,  and  beautiful,  and  bright, 
A  being  made  of  smiles  and  bliss  ; 
With  soul  too  full  of  heaven's  own  light, 
To  stay  in  such  a  world  as  this. 

And  soon  was  that  immortal  flower 

That  bud  of  being,  lent  not  given 

From  blighting  sin  and  sorrow's  shower, 
Transplanted  safe  to  bloom  in  heaven. 


GNADENHUTTEN.  240 

'Twas  night — the  sky  was  cloudless  blue, 
And  all  around  was  hushed  and  still, 
Save  paddle  of  the  light  canoe, 
And  wailing  of  the  whippoorwill. 

The  moon  was  like  a  silver  thread, 
Just  sinking  in  the  green  wood's  bosom; 
And  swift  from  heaven  the  night-dew  sped, 
With  pearly  gifts  for  leaf  and  blossom. 

And  soft  as  balmy  dews  of  night 
Upon  the  beauteous  blossom's  breast. 
Came  slumber,  and  her  finger  light, 
On  every  closing  eyelid  pressed. 

^Twas  night — dark  night — no  sound  arose— 
The  weary  eye  forgot  its  weeping ; 
And  wrapt  in  bonds  of  bland  repose, 
The  missionary  band  lay  sleeping. 

But  hark  !  upon  the  startled  air. 
Wild,  unexpected  whoops  arise ! — 
And  the  red  conflagration's  glare, 
Is  brightening  all  the  midnight  skies' 

21* 


246  GNADENHUTTEN. 

Up!  sleepers,  up!  awake  and  fly, 

By  the  dread  lamp  your  foes  have  lighted— 

To  the  dark  green-wood's  bosom  hio, 

Your  homes  are  gone,  your  hopes  are  blighted 

Up !  sleepers,  up  !  away,  away ! 
A  canopy  of  smoke  is  o'er  you ; 
Around  you  fiery  streamers  play, 
And  the  dark  savage  is  before  you ! 

Perchance  some  home-fraught  dream  of  joy. 
In  slumber's  silken  links  had  bound  ihem ; 
They  wake !  'tis  but  to  hear  the  cry 
Of  savage  slaughter  raging  round  them ! 

They  wake !  'tis  but  to  mark  the  arm 
Of  death  above  each  brow  impending ; 
Vain,  vain,  the  shriek  of  wild  alarm — 
And  vain  the  prayer  for  life  ascending. 

They  died,  as  holy  martyrs  die — 
Their  latest  thought  to  God  was  given ; 
Resigned  their  souls  in  agony, 
To  wake  in  ecstacy  in  heaven. 


GNADENHUrrEN.  247 

And  perished  al]  ?     One  mother  fled, 
Escaping  both  the  brand  and  arrow ; 
And  to  the  midnight  forest  sped, 
Weary  and  weak,  in  pain  and  sorrow  f 

Nor  fled  alone — in  wild  distress, 
A  little  one  she  fondly  pressed, 
Sleeping  in  blessed  unconsciousness, 
Rocked  by  the  throbbings  of  her  breast. 

For  when  the  work  of  death  was  rife, 
'Midst  savage  yell  and  dying  prayer. 
She  fearless  sought  the  thickest  strife, 
And  found  that  little  slumberer  there. 

Trembling  beneath  a  shed  she  crept — 
The  babe  still  hushed  upon  her  bosom — 
Restrained  each  bursting  throb,  nor  wept, 
Fearing  to  wake  that  slumbering  blossom, 

And  from  her  lowly  hiding-place. 

Heard  every  yell  of  savage  slaughter ! 

And  closer  clasped  in  her  embrace, 

The  babe  she  deemed  her  fair-haired  daughtes' 


848  GNADENHITTTEN. 

At  length  the  long  night  passed  away— 
The  morning  rose  in  all  its  glory — 
But  smouldering  ruins  met  his  ray, 
And  corpses  cold,  and  pale,  and  gory. 

A  midnight  stillness  reigned  around— 
The  savage  foe  had  fled  afar — 
The  Lehigh  with  its  moaning  sound, 
Went  wailing  by  the  field  of  war. 

• 

Uprose  that  matron  young  and  fair, 
With  trembling  limb  and  beating  heart- 
Why  bursts  her  wild  shriek  on  the  air  ? 
And  whence  that  horror-speaking  start  ? 

She  gazed  upon  that  infant's  face 
With  frenzied  look  and  wild  despair; 
Clasped  to  her  breast,  in  fond  embrace, 
An  Indian  babe  lay  sleeping  there ! 

Nor  pined  she  long  in  hopeless  grief, 
With  every  bond  of  being  riven  ; 
Death  smiling  came,  a  sure  relief, 
And  angels  winged  her  soul  to  heaven. 


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